«* ■ 1 . » 1 

► 

, / t t •' 

* / < > v - . 4 ‘ 

• v; , > i ■ 

\ • •> 

• • 

f • 

• k *.. « « ■ 

4.4:* : 

■ r , • f 

I I : ■ • 1 • ’ 

t A< L • * ^ . 

» \, . v • r *■ 1 ; 


\ \ » ‘ • « M ■ ■ . '*• • 

• • * ' ,• C ? 


> r •• 


i . i » U f if; 

.'-.ru • s-’ * 

, . ■ .■ . . • . • . 

. • * •* v f 

, 


* v i: ’* i i am ■* ■* .»•< . 

•> < •* ‘ * / 4r4;I 

■ ■ • . 1 .1 - . k • • • r \ J • (■ 

•’ » , ’ • • .• ’ > C * ' % i \ 

• ■ . .. , . ■! i 1 . v < s 1 

♦ .14 1 -I •: « 

. . / I 'i \ li i, < • 

. . > i S , i • • v x ■ , * 

. > /'• i * « » • j , . Vl . J*. ^ 

t . I » .1 I <» • Vs* » *> 

: l . ( - i * ’ * • i K i ■/ 4 * 

. , I i X 

. < » > * » • • . - 

.4 • I 4 4 • 4 

I V • - ji • ‘ * 

•V » *«<•., 1 

i . » * • I i . * 

• r 

. r « >4. vv ... 


. .-4 . ■? I 

/ I '.I. ' 

. • 

. , ! , „ . 

If 

4 . . • . ‘ > 
. » ■ JI ■ ■ J i 

• ! : 

' 1 • , i 

• 2 -v . • > 

•• V- L 

. 1 V. ;.. 

, t-*\ / v r^ 

r ii > *" x 1 

{ * J 4 ' 1 

J . 4 > * V 

4 J • 

l ». » ' * 

» 4- " . I 

. . ' I . • i . ‘ f I 4 

,1 ... . V 7.4 S • • ■ V 

(' 41 « T 1' .* <. , 

» 4- '. .it 4.- % » 

■ v *■, . ■ ' • 

it * ■ t . 4 J t » 

\ ' ‘ I , • ' i 

fi ■ x i I . 4- I • 

l . I . I' . • .1 

‘ . • 4 ' , 

'* * t v : m • W 

’.A •" , u/i» 

■ K . f ‘ 4*. * I J 

1 < • . ’ /< 

' > > ‘i i a • ' 

t ' ■ I s’ 

r i 4 • ? \ . ' 

9 + y t \ . _• •• 

,1 X .1 ■ 

, 1 i . 4 

iff ..‘A ». • • •» 

-! ♦ J4 I- 

.4 ■ ■ 

.4 . 4, »l « ,!« 

2 i rf 4 ?. * ' * 

'» ? I i • s’ . 

i * • *- i 

< . N. ■ ; ' . 

I . <f r # 11 

. 4 ;* ./4 i*. 

■■i ,i « 

. < *- z 4 ... 1 i 

I -• . . ■ v . 

1 i • 

■ ». V' 

>,,•»** 4 4l ' v, t > 

/ -V w 

. »• 

( il V . . -r • 


’ ■ ^ 

• '• A \ 

: .'<f ,4* 

• s “.; 

1 * .* • i 
si if 

' > 4' ) 

i 

n \ ■' 1* 

' J' / i 

’ f •' f ?■ 

i .i < . *. 

• i £ 

\* W? 

.. .. 

• JI V. 

<• - * ‘ 

: 4 < ■» 

i I. U > 

V " 4 • I 

*' V/- /; 

>t i i \ » 

\ , •• 

« f ; 
i • 

4 . ' ; 

V ‘ • f i 1 

4 V i. 'll «• 

■ f ><■ 

k - 

f * I 

; / : ? 
•;* «v,; 

/’•.t •: 


' / 4 '4 ;• s- .• 


r:\nni 




















^.. *** r* 

IPs * 



* 0 O y ^ 

\^ %'*;>* o' 5 s#’ ^»n i*' f 0 ’ s **;. %, * 5 ’i 

<*° ' % <. " ^% .* a* "’A 

at » ** v< V «?’ 




U j> ^ ^ . ^- N . S ^ a 

V-' 7 rr.V“'^ -' 




,x o 

0 X 

o 

•d 

o 

> 



>- 

A 



c^ r 

v s 

Y v 

* ® /■ 

Z 

r 


.jja 

•tl 

C 



.> \> V >0 ,Vf° * « 

V- * ^ ^ -A -V 

^ '»•»'* A> 0 N 

, °o o 0 ’. 1 

, * s <*• <R\ 

~° o* : 


4 Yi >• 

', W^> » NT * 

» > ■'KY-' * a 1 cfv. t- 

Vj> " v „ * * <VJ' O, ^ °- V 

C'- ’ll'' -N c * o v ^;_ 



^ C,* Q 

o 



?• . 2 

* .aV *f> o 

* 4y<\ ^ 

S \ A *,. r %.*'o\\+ A° a 

^ ' ., V ‘ 8 £ ( S-, nV .. 0 

J-k ^ 


3$ ’ * 





-v \ 

•'*V°V>,Vv"A — / V *' ■' s : V/,X 

<. v ^ ^1 (-J <1 -A ' X- -<> 

A ♦ * <? 


^ * *o o x ® ^ 

^ ° o5 ^ 

> \v -^- <#. ‘-zy/iiyia v ^ 

• r ^ -; ?y ^ ,o° °o, % 

4^° ^ 

z 
O 

B 

8 % °o 

-? 1 

„ •>* v ° 

^ -< o o x 

o ^ 

> \ v ^ 

3* # : ^ k * 

N ° v N »' , *°^. > .0'%: 

C- V 1 “ 

^ y ^ \ 

•b 4 '> k , v> 

,.v - ^ ^ 


;-'-;w »/ ^ %s0s ^ % *Xw , 

' ° * ‘ * / c 0 N ° * s . S ''“* x *./ 

/; ,-, _ '^4S54\\ <*• -s£> . ** dfc.\l///, . ,-v» — 



^ V 1 



.,■>*' ^°° ... ,% '* » N o’* Y % ‘ 

fa'o % / .* *. %, *W - 

I: J 


A Y 


<> *> 


^ -V^" s s^ A 

c - « '<<5 A N , 1 8 K *- 

sank' ^ 4' - *-' / *' * 

v : n°^. = 

\V -v V' »■ 

r 


o° v 

-O 0^ • 4 ^ 


f 1 V 




•» -^. * ‘•r- 

> a 1 « 0 f *^> S 

,\> ^ jA^sT/h, r ' ^ (A ♦ 

’SA ® A\^w/y ° y v ° 

^ ° ^// >vA\^ A V> *^c -* ^^|| l |j!!|p^ ^ . v^ ^ o 

% % 0 \Y Y ' <• A Y ‘4' , 

a * *%. -0^ l , '"'»A * a 4 v « 1 "« < ^o <y 

n ^ ^ ^ 4- J ?/tVp? '° 0° 

/-A v ^ ^z. C^ ** u '>* V 






























f 1 A, 



x * o f 



*■ ^ p.0 

8 1 A % * * t 

*9 V . s '/ c> 

4? 


0° AA 

\> * * * 0 / 


aV <£* C^V' *' 

V „ M^//% c z % v « 

C ^ ° \ aT V> ^ > II Ei ^ o A^ 'Pp O ‘ 

S s /\ '-?y * 0 * y * X) ^ *t t , S .A. O 

^ V", -#* J ‘'"‘*,A A^v* l “*. =■ 

V <• &/r//?? * aA”Av ✓ -?■ A •i' ae/f/7^. * 

*A >* K ™ ' //y ^ 


C <b '* 

s V o r -A * 3 M 0 \' 

s r * O v * 

< «f> r 

* <v> A^ - 

</* (^» as , 



a* A> 

. . * .f« v 


,v> %, 


V * <G' 

-> , 0 N 0- b 

0° * fc ^% 



s s- .A "a 

b o 

■p r 

s '^rA 



* * 0 ^ 


o 

A % v 

ty * 

y fJ * * ^ 

^o v * c 

' w 0 * 
x «/T / //V'2. •*> x 

» “O' ? 

® ^ ^ ^ 

V3^y ,..,vata /•., X »., 




^ <** v 

: V/ : 


•* «• * s 


c. 

* A » 

■A flV * v 

v * «G^ C **, 

rS .0^0-. A 

0° > A 

i y* A' 

K 

Jp* 
*>■ 



\ 00 ^ . 



// S^*-~ T 

* °0' 

a5 ^ 

c , S ■ * o.^ * ^ r: t / -tsO' i J* <3 

A *»K»\/ .. %/»,,,*' A 0 ' v ., f ^ 

*, V . V /A“'. " v'J^, A 

^ \v . MMSi ° z ^ ^ ° 

o . A^’ '•?/> o (/ vw 

N P' F * 

ri' a -AO. 

J> 


0 * W ^ ^C> 

r0 > -t o^ ^ ^ 

✓ '>A 4,\ 



o o x 




s » * r 


% < 


? %. 


" \^ A » 1 "* ^ 
.a\ * 0{(fffe2? + 


J 


+ A (y <. x 

p. V 0 N G Q ^ 

- C ’ F ^ A^ 




& <r 


☆ * 










































































































The 

Fourteenth Key 


By 

Carolyn Wells 

Author of “The Clue,” etc. 


G.P.Putnam’s Sons 

T'JewYork & London 
Wjk lUiickerlocfeer $res2 
1924 





?Zs 
\ o 


Copyright, 1924 
by 

Carolyn Wells Houghton 



To 

My Dear Friend 


LILYBEL BARNARD SALISBURY 




CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I.—The Advertisement .... 3 

II.—Molly Winslow .... 22 

III. —Pinney’s Departure .... 39 

IV. —The Arrival.59 

V.—Two Young Men .... 77 

VI.—Old Photographs .... 96 

VII.—A Tragedy.114 

VIII.—Town Gossip.132 

IX.—At a Boarding-House . . .151 

X.—The Mystery.171 

XI.—Where is the Professor? . .188 

XII.—Lorimer Lane.206 

XIII. —The Plum Boarders . . . 225 

XIV. —Doubts.243 

XV.—A Newcomer.261 

XVI.—Clashing Claims .... 279 

XVII.—Lora Gives It Up . . . 297 

XVIII.—The Truth at Last .... 315 


v 




































THE FOURTEENTH KEY 























THE FOURTEENTH KEY 

CHAPTER I 

THE ADVERTISEMENT 

“Mark Winslow would be glad and happy 
to receive his grandchild, Joyce Gilray, into his 
heart and home. Please communicate, Willow- 
vale, N. Y.” 

But the above notice materialized only after 
Mark Winslow's twenty-two-year struggle with 
a determination never to relent, never to forgive, 
never to seek or accept acquaintance with said 
grandchild. 

Decision of character, that much-lauded trait, 
is, after all, only one degree removed from 
obstinacy, and Mark Winslow had taken that 
degree, and was now one of the World's Ten 
Greatest Obstinates. 

Over forty years ago, in that modem Eden, 
rather vaguely known as “up Westchester way," 
he had elected to pitch his tent, or rather, his 


3 


4 The Fourteenth Key 

wife had elected it, which came to the same 
thing. 

But having seen to it that the pitching was 
done properly, and that the tent was well 
equipped with bathrooms and sun parlors, with 
poplar rows and formal gardens, the good lady 
passed on. 

This left Mark Winslow in possession of his 
pitched tent and one growing daughter. 

The latter continued to grow in all the ways 
of audacity and coquetry until she grew out of 
reach of her father’s authority, out of all bounds 
of convention, even decorum, and wound up by 
eloping with the chauffeur. 

Let it be said in passing that he was a chauffeur 
of sorts, a Harvard undergraduate, working on 
his vacation. 

This calamity, in addition to the death of his 
wife, had turned Winslow from a fine benevolent 
husband and father into a soured misanthrope. 
From an indulgent, easy-going family man, he 
became a silent, moody recluse, until he could 
think things out. 

He had not a hair-trigger intellect, but he had 
a sound and fine one, and good judgment as well. 

His two great troubles gave him fearful jolts, 
and he sat down to think out for himself a 
philosophy and mode of life. 

His chosen philosophy turned out to be a 


blend 


The Advertisement 


5 


of the cynic and stoic, and his mode of life was 
to stay on in the home he loved and get the 
most and best out of his solitary condition. 

Imprimis, he disinherited and disowned his 
daughter. He flattered himself he had achieved 
a wonderful sense of relative values. He sent 
fifty thousand dollars to the elopers and declared 
the incident closed. 

From that time he had never heard from his 
daughter but once, and he had not replied. 

But all that was about two decades ago. 

Winslow was now seventy, and'his name stood 
for all that was solid and honorable in the busi¬ 
ness world and was equally well known and 
respected in the marts of art and literature. 

Tall and commanding of presence, he did not 
look within ten years of his real age, and had 
more the appearance of an English Squire than 
an American millionaire. 

His hair was silver gray, but abundant, and 
inclined to curl. His big, stalwart frame was 
at its best in knickerbockers and Norfolk jacket, 
as he strode about the place, followed by his 
dogs, or stood in front of his library fire. 

He had the air of a man whose oyster was the 
world, and he had successfully opened it. 

Save for the lack of what the novelists call 
Heart Interest, Winslow was a happy man. 
The idea of a second wife had never appealed to 


6 


The Fourteenth Key 

him, nor had that of an adopted child. So he 
lived alone, entertaining guests frequently, 
chumming a little with his neighbors, and having 
many interests and hobbies. 

At times he would sigh for a home circle of 
his own, but rarely did he give way to these 
feelings. When they came too strongly he 
would set his jaws and go out for a walk. 

Mark Winslow’s jaws were of a pronounced 
type and they came together with the forcible 
accuracy of an Innovation trunk, and were 
almost as strong. 

He was called pig-headed by many, but that 
was not his real character. If the question were 
a matter of fact, and he knew the truth about it, 
he stuck to it. If a matter of opinion, he had 
his own and stuck to that. No arguments could 
move him, no threats or cajoleries shake him, 
once his mind was made up and his jaws 
set. 

Nor could he shake himself. Having decided 
on a thing, it was decided for all time, so far as 
he was concerned. 

The growth and strengthening of his obstin¬ 
acy, was, of course, the dire result of his living 
alone. Nothing is so conducive to a stubborn¬ 
ness of disposition as having no one about to 
argue with. 

And so handsome old Mark Winslow became 


The Advertisement 


7 

an autocrat in his home, and, to a great extent, 
in his neighborhood and community. 

On a Sunday afternoon in June, a day of the 
James Russell Lowell type, Winslow elected to 
sit out on his front lawn under a spreading horse 
chestnut tree. 

In common with most of his townspeople he 
spent Sunday afternoons on his verandahs or 
under his lawn umbrellas or arbors, and there 
being no impeding hedges or fences, sidewalk 
pedestrians often noted and admired the pic¬ 
turesque gentleman adorning the Winslow estate. 

His fine big figure took kindly to white flannel 
or duck and though not to be called a vain man,—• 
he was not petty enough for that,—yet his sense 
of relative values made it inevitable that he should 
recognize his own admirable personal effects. 

Years of this had given him a certain self- 
assurance that was not conceit or vanity, yet 
had a tinge of each. 

On this rare day in June, then, he ordained a 
steamer chair under the horse chestnut, and 
arranged himself comfortably therein. 

From a nearby Sunday School a little girl was 
on her way home. Impulsively she left her 
nurse, or whoever had her by the hand, and 
running across the grass to Winslow’s side, she 
threw herself against his knees, crying, ' Titty 
man! Oh, pitty man! ’’ 


8 


The Fourteenth Key 


“Bless my soul!” cried the startled Winslow t 
“who are you, Baby?” 

“I'm Dolly,” she replied, smiling engagingly, 
as she nestled into his protecting arm. 

“You're somebody’s dolly, all right,” he 
returned, his voice growing tender at the sight 
and touch of her soft little arms, and smiling 
baby face. “Wait a minute, Nurse,” he added 
as a shocked looking young woman came hastily 
to lead the child away. ‘ ‘ Let her chatter. ’ ’ 

For a few minutes the baby told the history 
of her brief life, that she was four ’ears old, that 
she lived in Titago, and that she was visiting 
her Damma, and that she had been to Tunny 
Tool. 

“And what did you learn there?” Winslow 
asked, a little perfunctorily, for his mind was 
racing back to a day when his own little girl 
had nestled in his arms. 

“I learned about neminees.” 

* ‘ Anemones ? Flowers ? ’ ’ 

“No, not f’owers,—your neminees,—bad 
peoples. You must ferdiv your neminees. Do 
you? Pitty man, do you ferdiv your neminees ?’ ’ 

Winslow looked at her. “Do you?” he said, 
playfully. 

“Oh, yes. ’Course I do. Teacher said, 
Ferdiv as you would be ferdiven. Do you, 
pitty man, do you?” 


The Advertisement 


9 


“ Yes, of course,” he replied, his tone implying 
the interview was over. “Take her away, 
Nurse, take her home.” 

He set the child down from his knee, where 
she had ensconced herself and paid small heed 
to her gay little gestures of farewell. 

For a time he sat motionless. He brushed 
the words from his thoughts, but they only 
returned with renewed force. 

“Ferdiv your neminees. Ferdiv as you would 
be ferdiven.” 

Should he ever forgive? Did he want to for¬ 
give? No, a thousand times, no! His daughter 
had made her bed, and she had been obliged to 
lie in it. Poor girl, it was a narrow bed now, 
for he had been informed of her death, through 
a stranger lawyer. 

To the news he had paid no heed—that is, he 
had sent no acknowledgment. The chauffeur 
husband had died before that—indeed, he had 
heard indirectly that his daughter had married 
a second time. But these things had been 
ignored in his determination to put her utterly 
out of his life, out of his memory, out of his 
heart. 

Now, the baby's little broken word, “ferdiv,” 
rang in his ears like a warning. “Ferdiv as you 
would be ferdiven.” 

But he had no wish to be forgiven—no reason 


10 


The Fourteenth Key 


to be forgiven, nothing to be forgiven for. He 
had sent his daughter fifty thousand dollars, a 
fortune for a young couple,—he had done his 
duty by her, though she had failed in her duty 
to him. Pshaw, he was foolish to get stirred up 
over the thing,—foolish even to think of it. 

14 Ferdiv—ferdiv —’ 9 He wished that silly baby 
had kept out of his yard! He rose and went in 
the house for a book. In the library, the word 
again rang in his heart. 

“Ferdiv—ferdiv- 99 

Manipulating a secret spring, a panel above 
the mantel flew open, and Winslow took out an 
old, faded envelope. 

Sitting at his desk, he read a letter through 
once more. 

“Dear Father: For you are dear to me, and 
ever will be. I wish you could see matters dif¬ 
ferently. Joyce is such a dear, and he is a true 
man—a fine man, as you would realize if you 
knew him. And he can support me. We are 
by no means paupers. The money you sent I 
have put into an annuity for my child. Oh, 
father, if you could see your grandchild, I know 
you would take all three of us back into your 
heart. Little Joyce is a wonder,— a veritable 
ray of sunshine, so beautiful and healthy and 
wholesome and happy. Such a peach of a 
baby,—just a year old today! But I cannot 



The Advertisement 


ii 


write more—sad tears are blinding me—if ever 
you want us, father, we will come. If you ever 
find it in your heart to forgive us-” 

There was more, but Mark Winslow read no 
further. He put the letter back in its place, 
closed the secret panel, and then, hands behind 
him, began a march up and down the length of 
the library, that lasted a full hour. 

And the burden of his thoughts was “Ferdiv— 
ferdiv-” 

Gradually, as the sixty minutes dragged by, 
he became more and more of a mind to forgive. 

Late for such action,—yes. Too late to make 
amends to his daughter. 

But suppose he should hunt up his grand¬ 
child, the little Joyce, who had been such a 
healthy, happy baby—doubtless like the t one 
who had visited him on the lawn. 

How to find young Joyce, he didn't know,— 
but such things could, of course, be managed 
somehow. 

The child would be twenty-one, now, almost 
a man. Twenty-one! The idea fascinated 
Winslow. What a fine coming-of-age present 
to make to his grandson! Reinstatement! A 
name and a heritage that some princes would 
be glad to get. Joyce Gilray. Pity not to carry 
on the Winslow name,—pity to have the Win¬ 
slow millions go to the scion of that Gilray 




12 


The Fourteenth Key 


family. Yet it was a good family enough. And, 
too, perhaps young Joyce would be willing to 
take the Winslow name. Mark wouldn’t insist 
on this,—every man has a right to his own 
name,—but if the lad were willing-” 

To the telephone the man’s steps turned, 
steady enough now, for his mind was made up. 

Burr Winslow was the name he called, and 
then gave a peremptory summons for Burr 
Winslow’s immediate appearance. 

And in perhaps a quarter of an hour, a young 
man appeared. A fine, big young fellow, with 
thick, tawny hair and frank, fearless blue eyes. 

“What’s up, Uncle Mark?” he inquired 
looking intently at Winslow’s face, and sensing 
disturbance of a serious sort. 

“As for you, Burr, perhaps the jig is up,” 
and Mark Winslow gave his grand-nephew a 
wry smile. “I’m going to try to find my grand¬ 
son.” 

“Good Lord, Uncle Mark! Just when I’d 
settled down to the notion of being your heir 
and successor and—oh, my heavens and earth! 
But it’s all right! And here’s my hand on it. 
Go ahead,—and—I’ll help ” 

The last words cost an effort,—that could be 
seen,—and small wonder, for the advent of a 
grandson would quash forever all hopes and pros¬ 
pects of the grand-nephew. 




The Advertisement 


13 


“1 wanted to see how you’d take it, Burr,-” 

A light broke over the young man’s ingenuous 
face. 

“Oh, it’s only a joke! To try me out-” 

“No, no, I’m serious,—I’m in earnest. I’ve 
come to the conclusion that I owe it to my 
daughter’s child to reinstate him-” 

“Hold on, Uncle Mark, why are you so sure 
that child is a boy? We’ve talked this over 
before, you know, and we agreed that it’s quite 
as likely little Joyce is a girl-” 

“Not little Joyce now; girl or boy, Joyce Gil- 
ray is twenty-one years old. And—somehow, 
I feel sure he’s a boy—a man. I feel sure of it, 
rBurr.” 

“The wish is father to the thought,” said the 
other, smiling, though the smile was a bit rueful. 
“However, I suppose you’ll take a chance on 
that. You can reinstate a granddaughter as 
well as a grandson, of course.” 

“Yes, though I do hope it’s a boy. Stupid of 
Helen not to tell me!” 

“I think it’s a girl—you often hear of a girl 
named Joyce,—rarely a man.” 

“But it was Joyce Gilray that Helen mar¬ 
ried-” 

“Yes, I know, and the child may be of either 
sex, and still be named for the father. But I 
argue that if it had been a boy, Helen would 






The Fourteenth Key 


14 

have told you so. She said nothing of the 
child’s sex because it was a girl.” 

“Pure surmise, Burr. You and I have talked 
this over before and we always say these same 
things. Now, I’ve made up my mind, and I’m 
going to find that child,—boy or girl,—if I can 
possibly do so. I’m sorry for you, my boy, I 
know the hopes you held,—but—my mind is 

made up. I’ll compensate—as far as I can-” 

“Now, Uncle Mark, once for all,—I’m not 
kicking. I did expect to be your heir, and to 
succeed you in your business affiliations and 
in your position here,—but your own grand¬ 
child has a far better right to it all, and if you’re 
going to relent and forgive and reinstate and 
rehabilitate, I’m going to step down and out, 
without a murmur,—that is, without an audible 
murmur!” 

“You’re a good deal of a brick, Burr,—and 
I’m tempted to give up the project even yet. 
You’re just about all I could desire in the way of 
a son,—or a grandson, but—hang it all, you’re! 
not my grandson, you’re my brother’s grandson^ 
—and it isn’t quite the same.” 

“Of course it isn’t, Uncle Mark, I see it all- 
just as you do. And I can’t do more or less— 
than acquiesce in your decision. You can’t 
expect me to be hilarious over my changed 
prospects, but you can expect me to take the 





The Advertisement 


15 

news standing,—and I do. I’ll be glad to stay 
in your offices, if you’ll keep me, and I’ll do 
anything I can to help you in your search for 
Joyce Gilray, Second. And there’s my hand on 
it.” 

Burr Winslow’s manner was entirely free 
from any martyr-like effects, his glance was 
straightforward and sincere, and there was no 
trace of servility or favor-currying in his tones. 

He looked just what he was,—disappointed, 
but resigned; sorry, but manfully accepting the 
blow. 

And it was a blow. For years, Mark Winslow 
had vowed that never should his daughter, her 
husband or her child darken his doors, and he 
had tacitly acknowledged his brother’s grand¬ 
son as his heir and successor. 

Burr Winslow, now thirty, had grown accus¬ 
tomed to this outlook, and to have it so suddenly 
changed made him feel as if an earthquake had 
shaken him. 

But his sense of justice made him see straight, 
and his nature, not unlike Mark’s own, made him 
accept the inevitable with a good grace and with¬ 
out resentment. 

Had there been the slightest chance of chang- 
ng his uncle’s mind by argument, he would 
lave used all his powers to do so. But he knew 
Hark Winslow well enough to be sure that now 


16 The Fourteenth Key 

he had made up his mind to seek his own de¬ 
scendant, nothing could swerve him from that 
purpose. 

With a final sigh for his lost prospects, young 
Winslow turned to his uncle with the practical 
question, “How are you going to set about your 
search?’ ’ 

“Don’t know,” said the older man. He was 
watching Burr narrowly. He had expected him 
to take the matter decently, but he had not been 
prepared for this whole-souled helpful attitude. 
He did not suspect any hypocrisy or insincerity, 
he knew Burr’s nature too well for that, but he 
feared that this spirit of cheerful resignation 
might not last, and that a reaction of resentment 
and enmity might set in. 

“Want advice?” Burr inquired, knowing 
better than to proffer that commodity unasked. 

“Why, yes, if it’s practical. You see, I know 
nothing save that Gilray died, Helen married 
again, and then she died. Whether the child’s 
stepfather still lives, I’ve no idea. I don’t even 
know his name. They all lived in California, — 
that is, they did when Helen died. Now, I’ve 
no idea where they are. I sent enough money, 
rightly invested, to keep them from any actual 
want.” 

“Then, as I see it, all you have to go on,fis the 
name of Joyce Gilray and the fact that the 


The Advertisement 17 

person bearing that name is twenty-one years 
old.” 

“That’s about the size of it. But money 
judiciously expended ought to be able to find 
the—the person. I’ve been told the Secret 
Service people can find any one in the country 
within a few days.” 

“You’re going about it that way, then?” 

“How else? If you’ve any suggestions, Burr, 
for Heaven’s sake make them. I’m not versed 
in this sort of business, I’ll admit.” 

“What started you on the search, Uncle 
Mark?” 

Mark Winslow gave a full and detailed account 
of the little child who had roused his conscience 
to activity with her prattle about “ferdivness.” 

‘ * Whew! ’ ’ whistled the young man. ‘' 1 And a 
little child shall lead them.’ Well, Uncle, it’s 
right,—that’s what it is, right. And I’ll do all I 
can to help, but you’ll excuse me if I remark in 
passing, that I hope your Joyce Gilray turns out 
to be a girl, and that she will have a predilection 
for tall young men with blond curls. Then I could 
marry her, and so stay in the family, you see.” 

Mark Winslow’s eyes twinkled. “That’s all 
well enough if she is a girl. But I have an im¬ 
pression that I heard the child was a boy. Per¬ 
haps from the lawyer’s letter, telling me of 
Helen’s death.” 


i 8 


The Fourteenth Key 


“Haven't you that letter?" 

“No, I tore it up the moment I read it. I 
felt that with Helen’s death the whole chapter 
was closed, and I destroyed the letter. But I 
have a dim recollection of a reference to my 
grandson, Joyce Gilray." 

“Well, in that case, I’m entirely out of the 
running. All right, Uncle Mark,—let’s get to 
work. Yes, since you ask it, I have a suggestion 
to make. I think the best way would be to 
advertise in one of those magazines that make a 
point of finding missing persons." 

“Didn’t know there were such." 

“You wouldn’t. They’re not the sort of 
periodicals you read. Oh, they’re all right, but 
they’re mostly adventure stories or mystery 
yams; and in the back there are a few pages 
devoted to this matter of bringing separated 
friends or relatives together again." 

“Sounds hopeful, I should think. Have you 
any of these papers?" 

“At home, yes. I’ll bring some over to show 
you. Anyhow, I can’t think of any other way to 
go about this matter,—that is, except through 
the police. And the advertisement seems less- 
well, public, don’t you think?” 

“Yes, I do. And while I don’t fear publicity, 
yet if we can keep the matter quiet until I get 
Joyce here, it would of course be better." 


The Advertisement 


19 


“If you had that lawyer’s address, or any 
address for Helen’s family, you could write 
direct,—but you haven’t, have you?” 

“No. I only know they went West, and, so 
far as I know, stayed there.” 

“Shall you take on Joyce’s stepfather, too?” 

“No!” said Winslow, angrily. “I had no use 
for Helen’s first husband, and I’ve still less for 
her second. What a pity my daughter, my 
only child, proved such a disappointment to 
me.” 

“Of course, you also proved a disappointment 
to her.” 

“Yes; I’ve no doubt she felt sure that I would 
forgive her at once, and take her and her silly 
husband back to my fold.” 

“And you wish now that you had-” 

“Oh, I don’t know! Let up on that sort of 
talk, Burr. The past is past. Now, suddenly, 
I’ve concluded to hunt up my grandchild. 
Begin from that, and don’t hark back.” 

“All right, Uncle Mark. Let’s draft the 
advertisement. If I’m to abdicate, I may as well 
begin to smoke out my successor.” 

“You take it cheerfully, Burr. Are you feign¬ 
ing this attitude?” 

“You bet I am, Uncle Mark! Deep down in 
my heart I am as mad as I can be! But what’s 
the use? I never lose my temper unless some- 



20 


The Fourteenth Key 


thing can be gained thereby. And as I see this 
thing, your mind is made up. I haven’t lived 
and worked for you these many years, not to 
know what it means when you make up your 
mind. And so, though I’m blue as blazes over 
the whole matter, I’m resigned, because—well, 
you remember the story of the Scotchman. 
They asked him if he was resigned to the death 
of his wife. And he replied, “Good Lord, I’ve 
got to be!” That’s my platform. I’ve got to 
be resigned to this thing,—and with what I 
suppose may be called my better nature, I do 
see the justice of it,—and so I shall be master of 
my soul, if I can’t be captain of my fate.” 

“You’re a fine fellow, Burr,-” 

“Cut that, Uncle,” the young man flushed. 
“I’m not playing to the grandstand, or acting 
the part of a Sunday-school-book hero! It’s 
only that I know when I’m beaten, and I hope 
I’m a good loser.” 

“Your mother won’t see it as you do,” and 
Mark Winslow gave a wry smile. 

“You bet she won’t,” agreed Burr. “But 
that’s neither here nor there. She will probably 
come over here and give you a—well a wordy 
quarter of an hour, but I’ll do all I can to pre¬ 
vent that. Now, about this advertisement. 
What shall we say?” 

And after several attempts to embody their 



The Advertisement 


21 


message in a few words, they hit upon the form 
given at the beginning of this chapter, and sent 
it off to all the magazines that printed such 
appeals. 


CHAPTER II 


MOLLY WINSLOW 

“Drat the brat!” 

In justice to Mrs. James Winslow it must be 
said that she rarely dropped into the coarser 
language that had been her habitual usage before 
she married into her husband’s aristocratic 
family. 

James Winslow, son of Mark’s brother Mat¬ 
thew, had been caught by the bright eyes and 
rosy cheeks of a factory girl, whose antecedents, 
though honest people, lacked the graces and 
refinements of the better families. 

James had married her, and had tried to 
improve her ways and speech. Had succeeded 
too, in the main; but in moments of stress, Mrs. 
James, now a widow, still fell back to the diction 
of her youth. 

Her vigorous denunciation in this instance 
was occasioned by the story her son Burr told 
her of the astonishing conversion of Mark 
Winslow regarding his daughter’s child. 


22 


Molly Winslow 


23 


The actual speech, however, referred to the 
little girl, whose Sunday-school teachings had 
been transferred to the millionaire magnate of 
Willowvale. 

As Mark Winslow had made no secret of the 
fact that the child’s observations on forgiveness 
had been the lever that moved his heart, so Burr 
related the incident to his mother. 

Mrs. James Winslow was ambitious for her 
son, and had settled comfortably down in the 
knowledge and belief that he was to be the heir 
of his great-uncle, Mark. Now, that this pros¬ 
pect was ruthlessly tom away, she collapsed, 
mentally, morally and physically. 

“And you’re going to submit tamely,’’ she 
fairly shrieked at her son, who, disturbed and 
apprehensive, stood before her. 

“What else can I do, mother? You know 
what Uncle Mark is, once he makes up his 
mind.” 

Molly Winslow shook her head. She was still 
comely, her black hair and snapping black eyes 
having well withstood the onslaughts of time. 
Men had wanted to marry her, but her heart 
had been given to James Winslow, and now her 
only interest in life was her cherished son, Burr. 

Yet they were not entirely congenial. Burr’s 
fine notions of honor and chivalry she often 
derided with all the strength of her common 





24 


The Fourteenth Key 


little soul. His tastes were far plainer than hers, 
and the trinkets and gewgaws with which she 
saw fit to adorn their home grated on his sen¬ 
sibilities. 

But he was a dutiful, loyal son, and accepted 
his mother as he did other conditions of life, 
loving such of her traits as he could, liking such 
as he might, and ignoring those that irritated 
and annoyed him. 

But coarse or vulgar speeches he never forgave. 

“Mother!” he cried, frowning with distaste 
at the phrase she had used. 

“Well, I don't care! To think of that silly 
kid coming along, and with a few baby words 
upsetting your whole life and career! It’s too 
terrible!” 

“I think Uncle Mark would have come around 
to this same decision anyway. He's been rest¬ 
less of late, and I think as he gets older, he wants 
to make up with Helen’s child and have peace 
before he dies.” 

“Dies! Mark Winslow is no more likely to 
die than you are! I know he’s seventy, or nearly, 
but he’s as hale and hearty as a man of sixty. 
Never an ache or a pain, no rheumatism or 
indigestion,—oh, I know Mark Winslow! No 
danger of his dying for many a long year yet.” 

“I think he’s been thinking over these matters, 
though. But, any way, that doesn’t matter. 


Molly Winslow 


25 


He’s sent his advertisement,—now if there’s a 
response, that cooks my goose.” 

4 ‘And I say you’re a poor slump of a man, to 
make no effort to save the situation, to make no 
protest at being done out of your rights, to lie 
down and let Mark Winslow walk over you!” 

“When Mark Winslow starts to walk over 
anybody, he walks. One may as well lie down 
to it, for no other attitude would help a mite.” 

The two sat in the pleasant little living room 
of their home, a few blocks away from the big 
Winslow house. A pretty little home it was, too, 
or would have been if Mrs. Winslow had not 
insisted on certain furnishings of crimson plush 
and decorations of tawdry bric-a-brac that 
accorded ill with the dignified desk, secretary 
and chairs of old mahogany which had been 
Burr’s contributions to their household gods. 

But like his Uncle Mark, he too had a sense of 
relative values, and, as he looked at it, his 
mother’s wishes should come before his own 
preferences. 

“For,” he said to himself, “this home is all 
she has; while I am much of the time at Uncle 
Mark’s or in the office, and I’m also often in 
New York, so that I have varied scenes, while 
mother has only the one place.” 

Out of doors, Burr was, too, a great deal of 
his free time. Golf and tennis claimed him, 


26 


The Fourteenth Key 


the Country Club hailed him as a favorite 
member, and many of the big country houses 
welcomed the good looking young giant to their 
hospitable festivities. 

So, on the whole, mother and son saw little 
of each other, but a cordial friendliness marked 
their relationship. 

Burr had inherited his father’s nature, and 
this made him acceptable to his Uncle Mark, 
who declared that he was all Winslow. Mark 
frankly and cordially detested Burr’s mother, 
and never saw her if he could avoid it. 

As both men had anticipated, Mrs. James 
Winslow lost no time in calling upon Mark, and 
telling him exactly what she thought of his line 
of conduct. 

He would have refused to see her, but he 
thought best to get the interview over once for 
all. 

“What does this mean?” the lady began, 
blusteringly. 

“What does what mean?” was the quiet 
response, though Mark Winslow’s eyes were 
stormy. 

“Doing my son out of his rightful place, and 
hunting about for some strange upstart to sup¬ 
plant him!” 

“You call my grandson a strange upstart? ” 

“Grandson, indeed! You’ve no reason to 


Molly Winslow 


27 


think your daughter’s child was a boy. For all 
you know it may have been a girl.” 

“Very well, then I shall have a granddaughter 
to comfort my declining years.” 

“Comfort! A likely story! Why, that girl, 
if it is a girl, will be a wild Westerner, probably 
given to riding mustangs or breaking bronchos, 
or whatever those hoydens do!” 

“Maybe that will be better than the fast- 
paced, be-rouged flappers I hear so much of in 
this end of our country. But it is my impression 
that I heard from my daughter’s lawyer that my 
grandchild is a boy,—by this time a young man 
of twenty-one. Surely, Molly, you can’t expect 
me to prefer my brother’s grandson to my own.” 

“Well, why didn’t you get around to it sooner, 
then, before my boy came to look upon all this 
as his future possession—*” she broke off with a 
sob, as she looked around the beautiful home, 
and out upon the spacious estate. 

“I’m sorry, Molly,” said Mark, more gently; 
“especially sorry for you. Burr takes it like a 
man,-” 

“Oh, Burr! Weak, spineless numskull that 
he is! He adores you—if you told him to cut 
off his hand, he’d do it! And what reward does 
such devotion bring him? Dismissal from all he 
hoped for, all he looked forward to! Mark 
Winslow, you are a monster,—a cheat •” 




28 


The Fourteenth Key 


“There, there, now, Molly, if you go on like 
that, I shall have you put out of my house. I 
have a right to do what I will with my own. 
Burr shall not suffer greatly, in a moneyed way. 
I shall remember him handsomely in my will, 
and when he marries, I shall give him a house 
and land-” 

“Oh, don’t tell me those things! A mere 
pittance compared to what you have led him 
to expect! I tell you, you had no right to raise 
his hopes to the utmost, and then dash them 
utterly!” 

“Has Burr said this sort of thing to you?” 

“W—well, not exactly, but, as I say, you 
have the boy so under your thumb, that he 
wouldn’t turn against you though you flayed 
him alive!” 

“Oh, come, now, Burr and I are good friends 
but there’s nothing servile in his attitude toward 
me. He’d be the first to deny that.” 

“Then, if he’s such a fine fellow, and such a 
good friend of yours why are you throwing him 
over?” 

“For my own direct issue, my daughter’s 
child. Now, let that answer suffice, and desist 
from any further questions. I do not forget that 
you are the wife of my brother’s son, but I may 
forget it if you remain longer, or harp on this 
subject further. I wish you good morning.” 



Molly Winslow 


29 


“Very well, I’ll go,” and his visitor rose. 
“But mark my words, you’ll rue the day when 
you get your new heir into your house. And I 
hope you will! I hope your grandchild will 
have all the worst traits of his chauffeur father. 
That he will be mean-natured and bad dis- 
positioned. That he will look like a common 
person and act like a boor! I hope you live to 
regret your foolish act of disowning my son, 
my fine-natured, well brought up son, for your 
renegade daughter’s child!” 

By this time the woman’s voice had risen to 
a shrill scream, all the more angered because 
Mark Winslow preserved his calm demeanor, 
and courteous smile as he gazed at her perturbed 
face. 

She went away, and Winslow watched her 
agitated course down the garden path. Then 
he turned away from the window, saying, “I 
wonder—I wonder.” 

But Mark Winslow was not one of the World’s 
Ten Greatest Obstinates for nothing. He was 
no whit swerved from his course by the tirade 
of Molly Winslow, and he resolved to make it 
up to Burr financially, though he cut him off 
in other ways. 

The Winslow business interests were wide¬ 
spread and important, and though retired from 
active participation, Mark Winslow still retained 


30 


The Fourteenth Key 


a controlling vote and was the real as well as 
the nominal head. 

This responsibility would eventually devolve 
upon the man of Winslow’s choice, and Burr 
had had every reason to believe that he would 
be the favored one. Now, if a grandson ma¬ 
terialized, naturally, Burr Winslow would take 
a back seat. 

And Mark Winslow’s absolute disregard of 
his own family connections for so many years 
had made it the settled conviction of everybody 
that Burr Winslow would be his sole heir and 
successor. 

But there is such a thing as an anger so fiery 
that it at last bums itself out, and this was 
Mark Winslow’s experience. Long nursing of 
wrath against his wilful daughter and her 
negligible husband had dulled itself, as an 
unmended fire bums away to embers and then 
to ashes. 

Advancing years had brought a less acute 
indignation, a more lenient judgment, and, 
finally an absence of rancor. Then, by chance, 
the speech of a prattling baby had wakened the 
spirit of forgiveness and brought about a revival 
of affection which urged Winslow to an effort 
to make reparation for his long years of stem 
punishment. 

He regretted Burr’s disappointment, but his 


Molly Winslow 


31 


obstinacy was now set in another direction, and 
he allowed nothing to stand in his way. 

He was deeply gratified at the way Burr took 
it. Not with a meek, martyr-like spirit, but 
like a man, meeting his sudden downfall with 
a brave front,—almost with a grin of courage. 

Well, time would tell. Perhaps Burr would be 
the heir after all. Perhaps no replies would 
ever come to the advertisements; perhaps the 
grandchild would turn out to be a girl; perhaps,^ 
if a man, he would be a worthless scamp, incap¬ 
able of managing business matters. 

June passed by, and the greater part of July 
followed, and then, one morning appeared in 
the mail a letter post marked San Francisco. 

“Mr. Mark Winslowit began: 

“Dear Sir: 

“I have just run across an advertisement in 
the Buccaneer Magazine , which I am sure is 
meant for me. I have not been accustomed to 
look upon you with any feelings of love or respect. 
My mother died when I was fourteen, and since 
that time I have shifted for myself, but I have 
been able to do so successfully. Yet I do feel a 
desire for a relative,—for a home,—for a family 
connection of some sort. And I am favorably 
impressed with the wording of your message, 
and the welcoming spirit it hints. Will you 


3^ 


The Fourteenth Key 


write me, and then I can tell better whether I 
want to go to you or not. Address me at the 
General Post Office, San Francisco, 

* 1 Sincerely yours, 

“ Joyce Gilray." 

Mark Winslow read this letter through three 
times, and then without a word passed it over 
to Burr, who, as usual was with him in the 
office, taking care of the morning's mail. 
The office was a perfectly equipped room in the 
Winslow home. Here such details of the busi¬ 
ness as needed Mark's attention were put 
through, each day, and then Burr would go off 
to the Company’s offices in New York. 

The younger man also read the missive two 
or three times, and then, with a whimsical smile 
looked up at his uncle, and said, “ Girl or boy? ” 

“Oh, a man," said Mark, positively. “Why, 
it’s typewritten and beside, it sounds like a 
man's construction. A girl would never take 
that semi-hostile attitude. Also, the signature 
is distinctly a man’s writing." 

“That’s so," agreed Burr, as he scrutinized 
the autograph, whose bold, free strokes and 
careless dash showed unmistakably a masculine 
pen. 

‘ 1 1 feel the tone of the letter is a trifle insolent, ’ ’ 
Mark said, ruminatively, “yet I can’t altogether 


Molly Winslow 


33 


blame the boy for that. He must resent my 
attitude, the only one he has ever known. He 
hasn’t even his mother’s recollection of the days 
when I was a kind and indulgent parent. All 
he knows is that I am a monster and an ogre. 
He can’t turn around all at once and be pre¬ 
pared to love me. On the whole, I like his hesi¬ 
tation and his uncertainty as to whether he 
wants to put up with me or not.” 

“You’re sure he’s the right one? I mean, 
there’s no chance for imposture?” 

“ Chance enough, but nobody could put it 
over. If this Joyce Gilray comes here he’ll have 
to prove his identity to my entire satisfaction. 
But if he’s my grandson, I’ll know it. Some 
subtle sense will tell me. And, too, he’ll have 
recollections of his mother, which can quickly 
prove his case. He had her till he was fourteen, 
so he can answer all my questions about her. 
I’m getting quite excited over it, Burr. Helen’s 
child! Wonder if he looks like Helen. Maybe 
like his father. Gilray was a handsome chap,— 
good fellow, too. But not what I aspired to for 
my daughter. Well, I’ll write to him at once. 
General Post Office, hey? Too canny to give a 
more definite address. If my letter doesn’t 
measure up to his requirements, I dare say he 
won’t come here at all!” 

“The stationery is that of a big San Francisco 


34 


The Fourteenth Key 


Hotel,” Burr observed, scrutinizing the sheet 
and envelope. 

“Yes, that betrays no secrets, you see.” 
Mark Winslow chuckled, as if delighted at the 
canny cleverness of his new-found relative. 
“He’s determined not to put all his cards on the 
table, until he sees mine.” 

“Well, when he sees yours, hell play the game, 
of that I’m certain,” and Burr permitted himself 
a grim smile as he saw his own fortunes wrecked. 

“Yes, I think he will,” said Mark, quietly, 
and turned to his desk. 

Half an hour later, he had concocted a long 
and explicit document, that set forth his new 
attitude of affection for his grandchild, and his 
change of heart concerning the situation. He 
expressed his desire that Joyce should come 
East immediately, and become a resident of the 
Willowvale home, and promised all the love, and 
loyalty that a grandparent could give, including 
a promise to make said Joyce sole heir to the 
Winslow estate and fortune. 

After signing this screed, on a sudden impulse, 
Mark added a postscript, saying, 

“I’m not quite sure whether you are a man 
or a girl. Please telegraph this most important 
information at once.” 

Burr smiled at the postscript, when his uncle 
passed over the letter for him to read. 


Molly Winslow 


35 


“ Small doubt, when you look at the signa¬ 
ture,’’ he commented, glancing again at the 
dashing autograph. Still, you never can tell. 
Western girls are different from ours.” 

“But no girl ever wrote that,” and Mark 
nodded at the name on the letter. “Well, post 
it in New York, Burr, and if you hate to lose 
your own position here, you can destroy it, you 
know.” 

“I’ll strive to resist that temptation,” said 
Burr, but he did not smile as he thrust the letter 
in his pocket and prepared to depart. 

Left to himself, Mark Winslow had a momen¬ 
tary qualm as to the wisdom of his actions. Had 
he done well to supplant Burr by an unknown 
quantity? He didn’t like Burr’s grim face as 
he took that letter. Yet he well knew that Burr 
would do nothing wrong. He was a faithful, 
devoted worker in the Winslow offices, and 
though now he was about to be supplanted, yet 
he would receive many and substantial benefits 
as time went on. 

Obstinacy conquered, and with a quick ges¬ 
ture Mark Winslow picked up his telephone and 
summoned Martin Barry, his lawyer. 

At the news his client told him, Lawyer Barry 
was dumfounded. The idea of restoring the 
absent grandchild to favor was right enough, 
but to go ahead so fast as to make a new will 


36 


The Fourteenth Key 


and leave said grandchild all his fortune was, 
to Barry’s mind, rash and ill-advised. 

But it was about as futile as talking to the 
wind to try to change Mark Winslow’s mind. 

A few telling arguments from Barry were 
brushed aside by Mark as of no consequence 
whatever. All objections were met with the 
insistence that a man had the right to do as he 
chose with his own and by his own. And finally, 
after a hint that if Barry didn’t care to continue 
his post as adviser and lawyer there were others 
to be employed in those capacities, the legal 
gentleman gave up the strife, and drew the will 
in exact accordance with his client’s wishes. 

There were minor bequests, many of them; 
there was a substantial sum left to Mrs. Molly 
Winslow. A larger sum still was apportioned 
to Burr, with a goodly share of stock in the 
Winslow Company. And then, the residuary 
legatee was, “my grandchild, Joyce Gilray, 
child of my daughter Helen, and her husband, 
Joyce Gilray.” 

This was clear and definite enough, and cov¬ 
ered the possibility that, after all, the grand¬ 
child might be a girl. 

But Barry agreed that the signature to the 
letter undoubtedly meant that Joyce Gilray was 
a man, and a strong and forceful character at 
that. 


37 


Molly Winslow 

“Fm not a chirographical expert,” the lawyer 
said, "but I’ve seen enough handwriting to set 
that specimen down as the autograph of a real 
man, possessed of self-respect and self-assurance.” 

But no telegram came, when the time was ripe, 
telling of the sex of Joyce Gilray. Mark began 
to fear that his overtures were not to be accepted. 
And then, in due time, came another letter. 

This was on plain paper, large, good quality 
and correct style. 

The date was merely San Francisco, without 
street number. This one began: 

"Dear Grandfather: 

"What a lark! To think you don’t know 
whether your daughter’s baby was a boy or a 
girl! Well, I’ll keep you guessing, for the 
mystery is quite in keeping with some of the 
stories in the magazine where I found your 
advertisement. And in a week or so, I’ll show 
up in my true colors on your doorstep, and then 
you’ll know. I like your letter first rate, and 
I’m accepting your invitation and shall hold 
you to all your promises. I’ll come across by 
the Santa Fe, and will probably lift Willowvale 
about the middle of August. Will wire exact 
date, later. I have to settle up a few business 
matters here, as I hope I shall never return. 
Wonderful climate and all that, but I long for 


38 


The Fourteenth Key 


the excitements and activities of New York, 
which El Dorado I never have seen. 

“You may imagine me as a big, husky chap, 
or a sweet young girl with ringlets and dimples! 
But at any rate, I am 

“Your affectionate Grandchild, 

“Joyce Gilray.” 

This time the signature was penned in print 
letters, rather scrawly, as if the writer were 
humorously disguising any sex indication. 

“The boy’s full of fun,” said Mark, with a 
nod of satisfaction. “That’s like his mother, 
at any rate.” 

“Boy?” said Burr, with a quizzical smile. 

“Yes, of course. Shows in every line of the 
letter. Sorry for you, Burr. But buck up, you 
and he may be great chums-” 

“Hold on, Uncle Mark,—there’s a limit! I 
accept my dethronement but I make no promises 
to be chums with the new monarch.” 

And a gleam of independence shot from the 
eyes of the younger man straight into those of 
his uncle. 



CHAPTER III 


pinney’s departure 

In the lobby of a big San Francisco hotel a 
young man was going through the process known 
as checking out. 

The marble-faced room clerk became almost 
urbane as he took the key from his departing 
guest. 

“ Going East, Mr. Pinney?” he inquired, 
pleasantly. 

“New York City, and environs,” was the 
smiling response. 

“Good luck to you, and hope to see you back 
here soon.” 

“Not if all goes well. I’ve served my term in 
Hollywood, and I’m going to turn over a new 
leaf.” 

Several curious faces were turned toward the 
young man as he gave a porter some instructions 
and watched his various pieces of luggage duly 
attended to. 

Crossing to the news stand, he picked up the 


39 


40 


The Fourteenth Key 


new Buccaneer Magazine , dropped some change, 
and went out to his waiting taxicab. 

Later, in the train, having finished a long and 
thrilling murder yam in his favorite periodical, 
he sat up and took notice of his fellow travelers. 

None interested him specially, he saw no one 
he knew, and noticed nobody he cared to know. 
Returning to his reading, he spent the rest of 
the day in the smoking car or diner, and tumbled 
into his berth early. 

But the next day, invigorated by a long night’s 
sleep, and ready for adventure, he sought the 
observation car, and looked hopefully at the 
other passengers. 

One young women he thought charming, but 
as she was obviously guarded by a lynx-eyed 
husband, he gave up all hope of a chat with her. 

There were, however, three girls whose bright, 
piquant faces seemed to promise pleasant ac¬ 
quaintance. 

They were not traveling together, and select¬ 
ing the least timid looking of the three, he pro¬ 
ceeded with discretion and tact to draw her into 
a conversation. 

It wasn’t difficult, for his frank, handsome 
face, and gentle manner attracted her at once, 
and the camaraderie of the train allowed, she 
thought, a certain latitude of convention. 

He learned that her name was Susie Ray, 


Pinney s Departure 41 

that she was going to visit an aunt in New 
England, and later go to school there. She was 
a bright, yellow-haired little thing, of great 
volubility, and given to giggles. 

“And I know who you are!” she cried, gaily, 
“you’re Tom Pinney, the movie star!” 

“Tom Pinney, at your service,” he said, 
“but not accorded the title of star.” 

“Oh, yes, you are! Why, we never miss a 
picture that has your name in the cast. That 
one-sided smile of yours is as well known as 
Charlie Chaplin’s feet or Mary Pickford’s curls.” 

“Now you’re flattering me, and if you do that 
I shall go away and flirt with some other girl,” 
and the queer little one-sided smile flashed at her. 

“Which one?” she parried, looking about the 
car. 

“The pretty one with the blue hat, or else the 
serious faced one in brown.” His glances fol¬ 
lowed her own. 

“They’re not half as nice as I am,” she 
assured him comfortably, and pinned him to her 
side the rest of the morning. 

But Pinney’s was a butterfly nature and after 
luncheon he sought out the other two girls. 

They had become acquainted by this time, 
and in his easy-going way, he joined the pair, 
and in a short time they were chatting like old 
friends. 


42 


The Fourteenth Key 


The pretty one, as he had called her, had a 
round, babyish face and bobbed hair, while the 
other, older and a trifle shyer, had dark hair and 
eyes, a straight nose and a wistful, drooping 
mouth. 

Impartially, Pinney chatted with both, mak¬ 
ing good as he always did when he wanted to. 
His magnetism was irresistible, his casual, off¬ 
hand way was attractive, and the dark haired 
girl’s mother across the aisle, merely smiled as 
she saw her daughter animatedly talking to the 
good looking stranger. 

It was not long before names were exchanged, 
the dark haired girl being Jane Phelps and the 
bobbed one, Lora Ward. 

Pinney modestly admitted being a moving 
picture actor, but disclaimed stardom. How¬ 
ever the girls were thrilled at the knowledge of 
his identity and proceeded to lionize him at 
once. 

Soon, to his regret, Jane Phelps’ mother took 
her away, and he was left t6te-4-t£te with Miss 
Ward. 

She was not shy but a restraint seemed to fall 
upon her when left alone with Pinney. 

Her round, dimpled face was charming, her 
short hair was in soft ringlets, not the fuzzy 
state known as “a permanent.” And her deep 
set eyes were of the sort of violet that changes 



Pinney’s Departure 43 

from dark blue to grey. Yet she was of the 
roguish type, Pinney decided, and he was a bit 
piqued at her sudden hauteur. 

“You are alone?” he said, intuitively. 

“Yes,” she returned, “and so, I don't think 
I ought to sit here talking to a stranger.” 

“Now, that's either prudery or—coquetry,— 
and—I don't know which.” 

He spoke thoughtfully, his head a bit on one 
side, and his queer little smile breaking through 
his solemn air. 

She colored a little, and he thought he had 
never seen a lovelier flush than the pink that 
came to her cheeks. 

“That's a silly speech,” she said, with quick 
asperity. “I’ve a notion not to speak to you 
again!” 

“There are others,” he said, nonchalantly 
glancing about the car. “I’m attracted to you, 
I admit, but if you flout me, I can only try again 
and hope to find a kinder heart.” 

His imitation of a despairing swain was so 
humorous that Lora Ward laughed outright. 

“But I’m in earnest,” she went on. “I’ve 
been brought up not to chat with strangers, 
and—a movie actor, of all things!” 

“ It is pretty awful,” he agreed; “would it help 
matters any if I tell you that I’m not going to 
be a movie actor any more?” 


44 


The Fourteenth Key 


“Really? Why not?” 

“Well, for one thing,—I don’t think it’s a real 
man’s job.” She looked at him with a sudden, 
new interest. “And, too,” he went on, “I’ve 
been fired.” 

“Fired!” 

“Practically. The Hollywood people I’ve 
been with seemed to think I’d outworn my 
welcome, and as I wanted to break loose any¬ 
way, I’ve shaken the dust of California off my 
feet, I trust forever.” 

“And what are you going to do?” 

“Don’t exactly know yet. But I’ve a new 
life opening up,—which may lead me in almost 
any direction.” 

“What do you mean by a new life? Some 
unexpected prospect?” 

“Just that. Don’t ask me about it, I’d rather 
not tell yet. Perhaps we can meet after I’m 
settled in my new—prospects.” 

“Perhaps,” she returned and then again 
lapsed into one of her silences. So lost was she 
in reverie that Pinney, after a curious glance at 
her, rose softly and slipped away, apparently 
without her notice. 

“Can’t have made much of an impression,” 
he told himself, ruefully. “Guess I’ll go back to 
the original Susie.” 

The days passed. People became better 


Pinney’s Departure 45 

acquainted and Pinney met some men whose 
company he enjoyed even more than that of the 
chattering girls. Though not a star, he was a 
popular motion picture actor, and as the report 
circulated that he was giving up the profession, 
he was besieged with regrets and queries. 

He parried his inquisitors with non-committal 
statements, and laughingly said that he was 
giving it up, but might be forced to return to it, 
if his new prospects fell through. But he took 
no one into his confidence, and mingled with 
the passengers, now chumming with the men in 
the smoker, now chaffing the girls in the obser¬ 
vation car, and sometimes talking pleasantly 
and seriously with the older people. 

He was a general favorite because of his un¬ 
failing good nature, and quick witted repartee. 

He still liked best the three girls whom his 
unerring eye had first picked out. Of these he 
preferred Jane Phelps and Lora Ward, the little 
Ray girl having proved too frothy and giggle- 
some for his taste. 

Not infrequently the three were together, 
Pinney and his two girl friends, and Mrs. 
Phelps had come to look on him as one of their 
party. 

One morning, as they were nearing Kansas 
City, the trio sat chatting and laughing in gay 
good humor. They were in the day seats of a 


4 6 


The Fourteenth Key 


sleeper, and Pinney was riding backward, with 
the two girls opposite him. 

Suddenly and without warning came a terrible 
jolt, an awful noise, and the grinding of brakes. 
Then a fearful upheaval, a crash, and all the 
horrors of a head-on collision of two heavy 
trains. 

Pinney’s last recollection was of being thrown 
forward against the two girls, then something 
heavy crashed down on his head and he knew 
no more. 

His returning consciousness found him in a 
hospital bed, a white garbed nurse, urging him 
to take a spoonful of something she offered. 

He swallowed obediently, and with mind now 
perfectly rational and alert, said, 4 ‘Where am I? 
and what happened?” 

“In a hospital. Train collision,” the nurse 
answered, tersely but not curtly. “Don’t 
think,—go to sleep.” 

“I’m through sleeping, I’m all right now. I 
want to get up.” 

But a single sudden effort to raise his head 
was too much for him, and he dropped back on 
his pillow with a groan. 

“Whatever ails me?” he asked, weakly. 

“You were hit on the head,—stunned. A 
miracle that you were not killed. You had a 
very close call. As it is, you’ll be all right in a 


Pinney’s Departure 


47 


day or two, if you keep quiet and don’t raise any 
temperature or cut up any foolhardy tricks.” 

“ Don’t be cross with me , Nursie,” he whee¬ 
dled, and the grim-faced woman smiled invol¬ 
untarily. 

“Where are the girls?” he asked, suddenly. 

“What girls?” she returned. 

“The ones I liked, Miss Phelps, Miss Ward 
and Miss Ray.” 

“I don't know, but I can find out. There 
were a great many killed. It was a terrible 
accident.” 

“Collision, you say?” 

“Yes. They've found out that the engineer 
fell dead of heart disease, and so the signals 
were disregarded and a fearful collision followed. 
The worst accident in years.” 

“What day is it?” 

“Saturday. You've been unconscious forty- 
eight hours.” Pinney pondered. 

“Any luggage saved?” 

“There’s a lot of it, I hear, at the station. 
When you're able, you can go and pick out yours, 
if any is there. That little bag on the stand there, 
you had clutched tightly in your hand when you 
were brought in.” 

Pinney glanced at the small handbag, nodded 
his satisfaction, and turning over closed his eyes 
for further sleep. 


4 8 


The Fourteenth Key 


Nor did he awake again to full consciousness 
till the next day, when he declared himself 
entirely recovered and impatient to proceed on 
his journey. 

The doctor appeared, advised him to remain 
quietly in his room for one more day, and then 
start on, if he chose. 

So twenty-four hours more elapsed, during 
which he amused himself as best he might, and 
then he was dismissed. 

At the hospital office he inquired concerning 
his train acquaintances. 

He was told that reports were conflicting, 
that many of the dead were unidentified, that 
some unhurt passengers had gone their ways 
and that some were yet unconscious in the 
hospital. 

But he was told that Miss Ray and Miss Ward 
were both killed, while Miss Phelps and her 
mother had left the hospital the day before. 

Sick at heart, Pinney’s mind went back to 
that last merry half hour with the two girls, 
now both gone forever. 

Carrying the little handbag, he went in quest 
of further luggage. There was a promiscuous 
pile of it, but only one suitcase of his own could 
Pinney find. His trunk was missing, doubtless 
smashed to atoms. 

He went to a hotel and registered for a night, 


Pinney’s Departure 49 

and then to the shops to buy a necessary ward¬ 
robe. A large suitcase was his first investment, 
and he quickly filled it with haberdashery and 
toilet articles, sufficient to last until he reached 
his destination. A new suit of clothes was 
necessary, too, for those he wore were cut and 
torn. 

Back to the hotel for the night, and after a 
disturbed and sleepless vigil, he resumed next 
morning the trip so tragically delayed. 

In Willowvale, at the Winslow house, prepara¬ 
tions were being made for the arrival of the 
expected Joyce Gilray. 

A pleasant suite of two rooms and a bath was 
assigned to the newcomer, and Mark Winslow 
himself superintended the furnishings and deco¬ 
rations. 

His housekeeper and domestic tyrant, Mrs. 
Swift, was a capable and efficient woman who 
ruled her subordinates with a rod of iron. 

This ruling at times extended to Mark Win¬ 
slow, but when that gentleman considered a 
matter important, he submitted to none of Mrs. 
Swift’s fiats. In trivial things he found it easier 
to let her have her head than to combat her. 
But on occasions of personal interest to him, 
he took the helm and the housekeeper knew 
better than to insist. 




50 


The Fourteenth Key 


Just now the question at issue was the style 
of furnishing the new suite. 

Mrs. Swift was absolutely positive that the 
grandchild, Joyce Gilray, was a girl; her argu¬ 
ment being that Joyce was a girl's name. 

“That doesn't matter," Mark Winslow said, 
for the twentieth time; “the child was, of course 
named for his father, and his name was Joyce." 

“But a girl could be named for her father, 
too," retorted the argumentative woman, and 
Mark was obliged to give her a stem command 
to do as she was bid and no more words about it. 

So the rooms were done up with a view to 
masculine occupancy, though enough latitude 
was given to whisk things about should it prove 
necessary. 

The bedroom, with its beautiful Circassian 
walnut suite would be a joy to any one of gentle 
tastes, and the chiffonier could be tmndled out 
and a dressing table substituted should such a 
change be called for. 

Likewise the jolly, den-like sitting-room, with 
its table-desk and smoking paraphernalia could 
be transformed to a lady's boudoir with a few 
slight changes of furniture. 

A moderate number of good pictures were on 
the walls, but Mark Winslow wisely left the 
minor details of the appointments to the taste 
of the new occupant. 


Pinney’s Departure 51 

Mrs. James Winslow came over to look at it 
all. 

“I must say it’s beautiful,” she commented, 
“but it ought to have been done for my boy. 
Oh, why couldn’t you see that he’s the one to 
succeed you, he’s the one to be your heir, your 
successor! When the time comes, Burr could 
step into your shoes, both here at home and in 
your offices, in society or in Directors’ meetings. 
He knows about it all. 

“ What does this chap coming know? Nothing 
of your business life, your home or social life. 
Mark, you have made a great mistake.” 

“No, Molly, I’ve made no mistake,—except 
the grave one of delaying this matter so long. 
But, thank heaven, it was not too long, and soon 
now, I shall have my own flesh and blood under 
my roof.” 

“When do you expect him?” 

“Any day now. He promised to wire the date 
of his arrival, but I’ve reason to think he’s a bit 
of a tease, and I shouldn’t be surprised to have 
him drop down on us any minute, without 
warning. He’ll be welcome whenever he comes.’’ 

Molly Winslow sniffed a little into her lace 
handkerchief, keeping a wary eye on her austere 
relative. 

“Will you promise me this, Mark,” she said, 
“if for any reason your grandson does not 



52 


The Fourteenth Key 


please you, will you reinstate Burr in your 
affections and heirship ?” 

Winslow laughed. “I’m safe in promising 
that, for I’ve no idea my grandson will prove a 
disappointment. I’m not expecting an old head 
on young shoulders,—he’s only twenty-one,— 
but I hope he will be pliable and easy to train 
into my ways and customs.” 

" Young men of today are not inclined to be 
very pliable, and I think you’ll find a young 
Westerner even less so than our Eastern people. 
At any rate, remember you have promised, and 
I am too fond of my son not to hope that he will 
seem wiser and better to you in the long run 
than this untaught cub.” 

"And Joyce may be a girl,” said Mark, his 
eyes twinkling. 

"No, I don’t hope for that. I did, but when 
Burr told me of the manly looking signature and 
the general masculine tone of the letters, I gave 
up that hope. And, too, if it had been a girl 
they would have named the child for Helen. 
Joyce was of course a boy, and named for the 
father. Some people insist that Joyce is a girl’s 
name, but it is used for either.” 

"Joyce Gilray, the father, was named that 
because it was his mother’s maiden name. Of 
course, Joyce as a surname is not uncommon, 
and as you say, it is one of the many names 


Pinney’s Departure 53 

that are used as a Christian name for either sex. 
Like Leslie or Marion or Sidney.” 

“ Yes, I know it, and like you, I feel sure the 
young Joyce is a boy,—a young man. But, oh, 
Mark, it has broken my heart. The whole 
thing came so suddenly, so unexpectedly,—I 
can’t get used to it.” 

“Well, Molly, you’ll have to get used to it, 
you’ve no option in the matter. And here’s 
another thing, you’re not to make matters 
unpleasant for Joyce in any way. If you don’t 
like him, if you resent his presence, simply keep 
away from the house. But don’t you ever dare 
come around here and stir up trouble! Don’t 
you ever dare hint to the boy that he is supplant¬ 
ing your son or that your son ever had any 
rights other than those he now has. I won’t 
stand it, do you hear?” 

“Yes,” said Molly, sullenly, “but you needn’t 
expect me to fawn on him and pat him!” 

“I don’t! Don’t be silly! But if you try any 
underhand work, I shall know it, and you’ll be 
exceedingly sorry you tried!” 

“Of course I sha’n’t,—I’m not a fool-” 

“You’re so precious near one that I don’t 
know-” 

“Mark Winslow! Are you insulting me—in 
your own house!” 

“Pouf! A woman like you can’t be insulted. 




54 


The Fourteenth Key 


Hush your talk, Molly, and if you know what s 
best for you and Burr, too, you’ll be careful of 
your steps where my grandson is concerned! ’ ’ 

As she herself would have expressed it, Molly 
Winslow knew on which side her bread was 
buttered. She changed her tactics at once, and 
began to plan for the entertainment of the 
newcomer. Convinced at last that she could do 
nothing to avert the impending disaster, she 
determined to turn it as much as possible to her 
own advantage, and said, blithely: 

“Oh, well, the two young men will be com¬ 
pany for each other. They’re about the same 


“That they’re not. Joyce is only twenty-one, 
while Burr is nearly thirty.” 

“Oh, well, that’s near enough for congenial 
tastes and pleasures. I’m sure Burr will be 
only too glad to introduce Joyce about, and 
get him started in society.” 

“Don’t be a fool, Molly. Do you suppose 
my grandson will need the introductions of 
anybody,—other than myself? His place is 
waiting for him, he has only to accept it, and as 
soon as he makes his appearance, there will be 
scores of homes thrown open to him, and scores 
of men and women both, ready to entertain 
him.” 

“Yes, I suppose so. But there are times 



Pinney’s Departure 


55 


when a younger man, like Burr, can take Joyce 
to places and entertainments that you wouldn’t 
care to attend at your age.” 

“Meaning silly dance halls or cabarets?” 

“Oh, how you misunderstand me, Mark,” 
she sighed plaintively. “All I want is to be nice 
to your grandchild, and to do anything I can to 
assist——” 

“You can assist best by keeping out of the 
way. I know you, Molly, your anxiety to help 
is merely by way of feathering your own nest.” 

“You are cruel—but be a little careful. You 
may regret this severe attitude you have taken, 
—if I don’t help you, I may find a way to hinder 


“As I’ve already told you, if you attempt 
anything mean or tricky, and I know you are 
quite capable of such an attempt, you will find 
yourself in much worse case than anything you 
can inflict on me. Remember that, Madam, 
and hesitate before you try to make any trouble 
for me or mine. I am glad Burr is not like you. 
He is all Winslow, and I have only the truest 
affection for him.” 

“Yet if I choose I can bend his will to my 
own, and if you push me too far, I will.” 

“If I weren’t so disgusted with you, I should 
be amused.” Mark Winslow gave a short laugh. 

“No, you wouldn’t. You know as well as I 






56 


The Fourteenth Key 


do, that there is a way I can get at you,—can 
pierce your armor-” 

“Oh, hush! Do go away! I’m tired of your 
veiled threats. If you’ve anything to say, come 
out and say it!” 

“Some day I may, but not now.” 

And then Burr’s mother gathered up her wraps 
and departed. 

It was that night that the evening papers 
from the city brought the news of the terrible 
train wreck. 

Mark Winslow was horrified. He sent at 
once for Burr, always his friend and advisory 
assistant. 

“Do you suppose Joyce was on that train?” 
he asked, wild-eyed with horror and apprehen¬ 
sion. 

“There’s no mention of his name in the re¬ 
ports, either of saved or lost,” Burr returned. 
“I’ve searched carefully, and can find nothing. 
Perhaps the morning papers will tell us more. 
And remember, Uncle Mark, it’s the merest 
chance that he would be on the train. We 
only know that he planned to leave San Fran¬ 
cisco about that time. We’ve no reason as yet 
to conclude that he left that very day, or even 
by that route.” 

“No, that’s so. You’re always a comfort, 



Pinney’s Departure 57 

Burr. But I must know. I can’t bear the un¬ 
certainty. You see if he is killed, it may be a 
long time, if ever, before his identity is estab¬ 
lished. How can I get definite word,—at once? ” 

“But Joyce said he’d telegraph exactly when 
we might expect his arrival.” 

“I know,—but he isn’t very punctilious in 
keeping promises. And when I asked him 
especially to wire me regarding his sex, he didn’t 
respond. I dare say he’s a bit rattlebrained. 
Isn’t it strange not to know at all what his 
disposition or attainments may be. Sometimes 
it seems as if I couldn’t wait to see him!” 

“Suppose we wait a day or so, and see if the 
papers give us any further information or if any 
word comes from Joyce, and then put in some 
inquiries.” 

Winslow agreed to this, but two days passed 
without any news whatever, and the impatient 
old man could stand it no longer. 

So Burr telegraphed to a Detective agency in 
Kansas City, for their agent to use every means 
in his power to ascertain if Joyce Gilray was on 
the wrecked train, and what his fate had been. 

In due time the report came that no such 
name was on the list of the conductor or porters, 
that no luggage had been found bearing the 
name or initials of Joyce Gilray, and that the 
hospitals had received no patient of that name. 


58 


The Fourteenth Key 


In fact the detective could find no hint or trace 
of such a person, and Mark Winslow was much 
relieved in consequence. 

And then, a few days later, as Winslow sat 
alone, at dusk, in his library, he heard the door¬ 
bell ring. 

He heard the door opened, he heard steps in 
the hall, and then a voice rang gaily out. 

"Hello, Grandfather, here’s your Joyce Gil- 
ray!” 


CHAPTER IV 


THE ARRIVAL 

Mark Winslow did not spring up at the 
sound of that voice, instead, he settled back in 
his chair, and a broad smile of satisfaction 
spread across his handsome old face. 

“Thank God,” he cried out, even before 
seeing the newcomer, “you are a man!” 

For the deep bass voice had a quick enuncia¬ 
tion and a virile, ringing tone that put to flight 
all fears of a granddaughter. 

And then the owner of the voice appeared in 
the doorway, and with a bound was at Mark 
Winslow’s side and had grasped the two old, 
welcoming hands in a firm, young grip. 

Jenks, the butler, who had admitted the 
visitor, and who stood, consumed with curiosity, 
in the doorway, snapped on the lights, and Mark 
Winslow saw his newfound heir. 

A man of medium height, good features, 
humorous smile and general air of happiness 
and content. 


59 



6o 


The Fourteenth Key 


Still holding his hands, Mark Winslow gazed 
long and steadily into the smiling face. 

“Not a bit like your mother,” he said, with a 
slight look of disappointment. 

“No, and I’m sorry,” said the other; “I’m the 
image of my father, I believe, and I daresay 
that’s no satisfaction to you. But, I say, Grand¬ 
father, try me out, and let me stand or fall on 
my own merits. Don’t make me feel it’s a handi¬ 
cap to look like my dad, and don’t make me feel 
guilty not to look like my blessed mother. Give 
me a chance to make good on my own. Then, 
if I fail, send me adrift, and you’ll be no worse 
off than before.” 

“Nonsense, my boy, I’m not thinking seriously 
of your looks, though I had hoped you’d remind 
me of Helen. Now, we’ll leave our long talk 
till after dinner, but just give me a slight inkling 
of your life,-” 

“That’s what I want to do, and I want to get 
it off my chest at once, for on hearing it, you 
may withdraw your welcome. Listen, Grand¬ 
dad. My father, Joyce Gilray, for whom, of 
course, I was named, died when I was a kid of 
six. I don’t remember him well at all. Then 
later, mother married again, and I got along all 
right with my stepfather as long as she lived. 
But when I was fourteen, mother died, and after, 
that, I couldn’t stand the man. We were utterly 



The Arrival 


61 


uncongenial. I had an annuity,—mother in¬ 
vested the money you sent her for me,—and I 
broke loose from home, and set up for myself. 
Now, here’s the sticker. I went in for the 
movies. I was always an athletic chap, fond of 
daredevil stunts, lariat-throwing, hard riding 
and that sort of thing. So, having a chance, I 
went on the movie stage, and I’ve been on it 
ever since. I never became a star, but I made 
good in my specialty work, and I enjoyed the 
life. But I didn’t think it right to use the Gil- 
ray name, for so many people are prejudiced 
against the picture stage, and I made up the 
name of Tom Pinney and used that. I’m telling 
you this frankly, and at first, so if you are 
shocked and pained too deeply, you can give 
me my walking papers at once.” 

Mark Winslow looked at him blankly. A 
grandson of his a moving picture actor! It was 
a shock. For Winslow was conservative, even 
old fogy, and he scorned the vulgar entertain¬ 
ments known as The Movies with all the strength 
of his aristocratic old soul. 

The younger man sensed this, and sat, with 
unmoved countenance, waiting for the decisive 
word. 

But the silence lasted so long that he grew 
restless and at last said, “Well, Grandfather, 
what’s the verdict? Can’t you forgive it?” 


62 


The Fourteenth Key 


Perhaps he couldn’t have chosen a more effec¬ 
tive phrase, for back to Mark Winslow’s memory 
flashed the words of the little child; “Ferdiv— 
ferdiv——” 

“Yes,” he said, suddenly, shaking his silvery 
curls as if shaking off a bad dream, “Yes, Joyce 
Gilray, I am going to forgive and forget that 
you have been a moving picture actor. And I 
ask you to forget it, too. I want you never to 
refer to it, never to tell me any more about it 
than you have now told me, never to talk of it 
to any one else. Simply ignore the subject and 
try to forget it. I take it for granted you are 
willing to do this?” he looked up inquiringly. 
“If not,—if you have any hankering to con¬ 
tinue that profession, then-” 

“Good gracious, no, Grandfather! I’m only 
too glad to be rid of it for ever. I want to devote 
my life to yours, to follow any course of conduct 
you suggest, to be a real comfort and help to you 
and to be a loving, dutiful grandson always. 
But, in honesty, I must tell you this. I achieved 
a certain sort of reputation, because of my really 
daredevil spirit in attempting and succeeding in 
dangerous stunts, and also, because of a funny 
little one-sided smile, which I cultivated, and 
which caught on with the audiences. I tell you 
this, because it is quite on the cards that films 
containing my pictures may be shown in New 






The Arrival 


63 


York, and perhaps even here in Willowvale. I 
should of course, be recognized. If this should 
happen, and if it would cause you embarrass¬ 
ment or annoyance, perhaps I’d better not 
remain here. You see, the films with my pic¬ 
ture in them may never be shown in this part of 
the country at all; they’re not nation famous 
pictures,—but, then, again, they might happen 
to turn up,—and, there you are.” 

Again Winslow was silent. Again there passed 
through his mind, like an undersong, “Ferdiv—• 
ferdiv-” 

Then, with a smile, he leaned forward, took 
the movie actor’s hands in his own, and said, 
“ It’s all right. Don’t worry about it. As I said 
forget it, and I shall forget it, and if it ever 
crops up, if the pictures of you are ever shown 
here, we will meet the emergency when it arises. 
Meantime, forget the subject, never refer to it, 
to me or to any one else. I accept you as my 
grandson, Joyce Gilray, and—er,—Tom Pinney 
is buried in oblivion.” 

“ That suits me all right, I’ve no desire ever to 
disturb his bones. Now, don’t you want the 
papers and proofs of my identity?” 

‘ ‘ Leave all that until after dinner. My lawyer 
and my grand nephew-” 

“Burr?” said Joyce, quickly. 

“Yes, Burr. And by the way, Joyce, he’s 




6 4 


The Fourteenth Key 


pretty sore at being supplanted, for he had 
fully expected to be my heir. But when you 
came on the carpet, I had to tell him of the new 
state of things .’ 1 

“How did he take it?” 

“Like a man and a gentleman. Burr is a 
mighty fine fellow, and I shall do all I can to 
make it up to him,—but,—” the old man looked 
wistful, “of course I preferred my own grandson 
to my brother’s grandson.” 

“I hope I sha’n’t be a disappointment, 
Grandfather,” and the queer little one-sided 
smile came into view. 

“That’s a funny trick of yours,” Winslow 
said, “is that smile natural or acquired?” 

“Both. I always smiled like that, uncon¬ 
sciously, and then, when it began to be looked on 
as an attraction, I cultivated and exaggerated it.” 

“Well, all right, but in so far as you find it 
possible, omit it.” 

Winslow’s tone was dictatorial, and impulsive¬ 
ly Gilray voiced his resentment. 

“I will do my best to lose it, but I’d rather say 
right now, if it’s going to bother you, or if you 
still feel that my picture career rankles, I prefer 
not to stay here. In fact, I don’t want to stay 
unless I’m absolutely and entirely welcome, in 
spite of my shortcomings and drawbacks.” 

“You are welcome, my boy, without reserva- 


The Arrival 


65 


tions or exceptions. And I like you the better 
for your independent spirit. I’m sure the matter 
of proofs and that sort of thing will be a mere 
formality, and then I shall take you into my 
heart and home as my loved and cherished 
grandson. Now, Jenks will take you to your 
room. Dinner is at seven-thirty. You have 
your bags?” 

“They're in Mr. Gilray’s room, sir,” said the 
ubiquitous Jenks, who had not been able to tear 
himself away from the hall door, throughout the 
interview. 

Joyce Gilray, as we must now call him,—Tom 
Pinney being forgotten,—felt a thrill as he went 
up the broad staircase for the first time. A 
son of the house, he belonged in all this beauty 
and luxury. Save for the formality of his 
identification, which would take but a few 
moments when he showed his papers and other 
proofs, he was the acknowledged grandson of 
Mark Winslow and had a right to the deference 
and respect even now being shown him by the 
obsequious butler. 

Mrs. Swift, the housekeeper, was awaiting 
him in his rooms and she curtseyed in the old 
fashioned manner that Winslow’s home seemed 
to demand. 

Gilray was enchanted. He liked this atmos¬ 
phere of old retainers and formal attentions. 


66 


The Fourteenth Key 


He smiled pleasantly,—and a bit crookedly,— 
at Mrs. Swift, whose heart was won at once by 
this charming new member of the family. 

'‘We made the rooms for you, as best we knew, 
Mr. Joyce,” she said; “your tastes will be con¬ 
sulted as to further furnishings.” 

“They’re fine, Mrs. Swift, just fine. I’ll make 
a few little personal additions, and then they 
will be simply perfection. Beautiful outlook 
both ways, too.” 

“Yes sir, Mr. Winslow gave you the best in 
the house. I do hope you’ll be comfortable.” 

And Gilray was comfortable. As he dressed 
for dinner, he whistled softly to himself, in 
sheer delight at the luxury and convenience 
everywhere. 

He stood before the mirror, and after a crook¬ 
ed, little one-sided smile at his own reflection 
there, he began to practise on a straight, well- 
balanced smile that should better please his 
grandfather and have no reminiscence of the 
smile that made his pictures famous. 

“Guess it’s the smile that won’t come off,” 
he meditated, ruefully, as his attempts at im¬ 
provement oftenest turned back to the objec¬ 
tionable grin. “I’ll have to cultivate a serious 
and solemn demeanor, where no smile is needed.” 

But he went down to dinner, determined to 
conquer that funny smile of his. 


The Arrival 


67 


The dinner was perfect. Not too elaborate, 
but bountiful and of the best. The table ap¬ 
pointments, the flowers and lights were all of 
harmonious beauty, and again Gilray felt that 
sense of elation at belonging in these congenial 
conditions. 

Ignoring the past, he chatted easily with his 
grandfather of current events, of the charms of 
the far West, and of casual subjects, proving 
himself a delightful conversationalist and a 
ready and willing listener. 

He made no reference to the train wreck for 
he deemed that no topic to introduce at a dinner- 
table. 

When they adjourned to the library, to smoke 
Mark’s choice cigars, Gilray opened the con¬ 
versation by a reference to the accident. 

“Yes, I read of it,” said Winslow. 

“I was in it,” said Joyce, quietly. 

“You were! Why, my boy, how dreadful! 
You weren’t hurt?” 

“Only a dislocation and slight break of the 
forefinger of my right hand. The doctor pulled 
it straight, but it is very lame, and will take 
some months to heal. But, it was a terrible 
experience.” 

“Tell me all about it,—the others won’t be 
here for a half hour yet.” 

So Gilray detailed the principal points of his 


68 


The Fourteenth Key 


trip East. He told of the acquaintances he 
made, mentioning the attractive girls and the 
interesting men with whom he had been friendly. 
Then he told of the sudden fearful accident, and 
how he was unconscious for forty-eight hours, 
waking up in the Kansas City hospital, with no 
more lasting injury than the broken finger. 

He told how two of the girls he had known, 
and several of the men had been killed, and told 
of the kindness of the nurse and the doctors in 
the hospital. 

“ And all my luggage was lost,” he concluded, 
“ except one suitcase and the small bag that 
holds the papers that were my mother’s. That 
I kept always by me, and the nurse told me it 
was clutched in my hand when I was picked up 
unconscious. A lucky thing, Grandfather, for 
most of the bags in the sleepers were ground to 
atoms, or burned.” 

“A terrible experience indeed, Joyce, and I 
thank God your life was spared. Now, as is my 
principle with all distressing or unpleasant 
things, let us strive to forget it. That then, 
explains your delayed arrival?” 

“Yes; and when I came to my senses, I 
thought only of getting here as quickly as 
possible. I just bought a few necessary things 
in Kansas City and by good luck, my dinner 
clothes were in the suit case that I salvaged. 


The Arrival 


69 

So, all’s well that ends well, and here I am, 
and very glad to be here. 

“I’m not given to gushing, Granddad, but let 
me say once for all, how I love and thank you 
for calling me to you, how glad I am to be here, 
and how hard I shall try to make myself welcome 
and worthy of all your kindness.” 

“That’s all right, boy, I’m sure we shall get 
along. Time must prove that,—for of course, 
this evening we are both on our best behaviour. 
I warn you that I’m not always so urbane and 
gracious. I can, upon occasion, be about as 
irascible and hard to get along with as anybody 
you ever saw!” 

“You’ve nothing on me,” returned Joyce, 
cheerfully. “I’ve the devil’s own temper, once 
it gets roused. And now that we know the 
worst, let’s, as you say, forget it.” 

Mark Winslow laughed. He was learning to 
like his grandson more every minute, and he 
greatly preferred the independent spirit he 
showed to a more servile or fawning one. 

Burr Winslow came then, followed shortly by 
the lawyer, Barry. 

Burr’s greeting was frank and cordial. He 
was determined that no spirit of petty jealousy or 
envy should mar his relations with his new cousin. 

“For we are cousins,” he said, smiling, 
“though once or twice removed.” 


70 


The Fourteenth Key 


“Yes,” said Joyce, “and unless you’re a sort 
of an angel, you must hate me for butting in 
here.” 

“I’m not going to pretend it gives me unmixed 
pleasure,” said Burr, honestly, seeing that frank¬ 
ness was in order, “but I hope I am a good loser 
and I offer you the hand of friendship.” 

Gilray gave him a hearty handshake, and a 
smile which he cut off suddenly, lest it be a 
crooked one. 

Martin Barry was not so urbane. He was 
civil, but he looked at the stranger with a critical 
eye and a grave face. 

“First of all,” he said, “we want to see the 
credentials our claimant brings.” 

“Quite right,” agreed Joyce. “Shall I get 
them at once?” 

He left the room, and shortly returned with 
the small handbag that he had clutched so 
tightly during his lapse from consciousness at 
the time of the collision. 

“Do you recognize the bag, Grandfather?” 
he asked. 

“No,” Mark said, after an examination of the 
outside. 

“Well, perhaps you’ve never seen it before. 
But it is one my mother carried away with her 
when she ran away to get married.” 

Mark Winslow examined the bag with interest. 


The Arrival 


7i 


A moderate sized handbag of dark maroon 
leather, somewhat faded by age, and worn in 
places, but still a smart, decent looking bag. 
On its side appeared the letters H. M. W. 

'‘Helen Margaret Winslow,” Mark murmured 
gazing at the initials, once gilt, now dull and 
inconspicuous. “I do remember, now, buying 
this bag for Helen soon after she left school. 
Yes, I remember it distinctly.” 

“You don’t know anything about Joyce Gil- 
ray, my father, after they were married?” 

“No,” and Mark Winslow flushed a little. 
“I cut them off entirely, I’m sorry for it now,— 
but it’s too late for that. Ignore my attitude in 
the past, Joyce, and tell a straightforward story, 
so far as you know it, of your parents’ early 
life.” 

“Of course, I know the main details,” the 
young man returned; “soon after they were 
married and settled in Los Angeles, my father 
became an actor. Not a Movie actor, they 
weren’t known then, but he went on the regular 
stage. He was a moderate success, and earned 
enough to keep his wife and child comfortably. 
I was the child, of course,—their only child. 
When I was about four, we moved to Santa 
Barbara, and when I was six, my father died. 
Two years later, my mother married again,-” 

“Pardon an interruption,” Barry put in, “but 



72 


The Fourteenth Key 


why was there no record of a Joyce Gilray in 
the newspaper reports of the railroad accident 
or on the conductor’s passenger lists?” 

Joyce Gilray’s face showed a slowly rising 
flush, and he looked decidedly embarrassed. 
Then, with a sudden, impatient fling of his 
shoulders, he said, 

‘ 4 That is what I have to explain. Grand¬ 
father, to you I have confessed what may now 
seem to you a disgrace. If so, I beg of you to 
say so at once, and let me go back to exile. For, 
I could not stay here with you, if you feel regret 
or strong disapproval of my past career.” 

Barry and Burr looked at him in astonishment. 
What could this young chap have to confess 
that would be as serious as his tone and look 
portended? 

The lawyer looked at him suspiciously; Burr, 
with a slight apprehension; but Mark Winslow 
gazed calmly at him, and said, “Tell it all, 
Joyce.” 

“It’s all told in a few words. I have been a 
Moving Picture actor for the last seven years.” 

The speaker watched closely the faces of his 
listeners. He saw surprise, even distaste on the 
faces of Burr and Barry, but Mark preserved his 
air of extreme calm and his features gave no 
sign of disapproval. 

“When I was fourteen my mother died. I 


The Arrival 


73 


never liked my stepfather and he had no affec¬ 
tion for me. So when I told him I meant to 
start out for myself, he made no objection to my 
leaving him. The money you sent my mother, 
Grandfather, she put into an annuity for me. 
It was enough to support me and keep me at 
school, but soon, I became infatuated with the 
Moving pictures, and from that it was but a 
step to get into the game myself. 

“But I thought best not to link up the Gilray 
name with my efforts, lest I fail and bring dis¬ 
grace upon my father's name. Of course, I 
inherit from him whatever dramatic talent I 
may possess, and after a few years of hard work, 
I made good. I was always a daredevil chap. 
As a child, no stunt was too difficult or dangerous 
for me to attempt, and I never minded bumps 
or bruises. I became a good all-round athlete, 
I whirled the lariat and I rode unbroken mounts. 
Incidentally I broke a bone now and then, but 
they healed up quickly and I was back at my 
work. 

“As I was saying, I chose a new name for 
myself, and I selected that of Tom Pinney. I 
picked that out for no reason save that it was 
euphonious, and had sort of a jolly sound. Mr. 
Barry, you will doubtless find the name of Tom 
Pinney on the train lists." 

There was a long pause as Joyce finished this 


74 The Fourteenth Key 

part of his tale, and at last Mark Winslow spoke. 

“I’m glad you have told frankly of your 
work,” he said; “I will not attempt to deny that 
it is a bit of a shock to me. I had never thought 
to have any of my kin on the Moving Picture 
stage-” 

“That’s enough, Grandfather,” and Gilray 
rose to his feet. “I understand your feelings 
and appreciate your prejudices. I will go away 
at once. I’d rather not stay under your suffer¬ 
ance. But I do want to say, that even before I 
read your advertisement in the magazine, I had 
definitely given up the pictures, and was about 
starting for the East, to look up some more 
dignified occupation.” 

“Now, Joyce, don’t fly off at a tangent!” 
Mark exclaimed. “I sha’n’t let you go away. 
I want you here, always. And I’m glad to hear 
you say that you gave up that business volun¬ 
tarily, for I certainly should have stipulated 
that you do so as soon as I got hold of you. I 
shall put you in my offices and give you a chance 
to make good as a business man. Does that please 
you? You don’t want to be an idler, do you?” 

“Indeed, no. I am only too glad to be taken 
into your business, and I shall do my best. But 
I fear I shall have to begin at the bottom of the 
ladder, as I’ve had no real business training in 
my life.” 





The Arrival 


75 


4 ‘Well, you shall have a few months vacation 
first, to get used to your new relatives and new 
surroundings. Now, go ahead, boy, show me what 
else you have in that old bag of your mother’s.” 

Joyce took from the bag many packets of 
papers; some letters, some documents. Some 
tied with faded ribbons, some with string; and 
some bound by rubber bands, so dried that they 
broke when touched. 

With reverent and trembling hands Mark 
Winslow picked up the papers and examined 
them one by one. As he read them, he passed 
them over to Barry. 

At the sight of his daughter’s marriage certif¬ 
icate, the old man broke down, and sobbed 
audibly. 

But his strong nerves soon recovered their 
poise, and he went through the rest of the papers 
hastily. 

“ I shall look these over and study them at my 
leisure,” he said; “now, I’ll just run through 
them and note their contents. This packet of 
letters seems to be from Joyce Gilray to Helen, 
written during a brief separation. The merest 
glance at their contents proves their deep love 
and trust in each other, and I shall read them 
with a reverent affection.” 

“Yes, Grandfather, keep them all and read 
them at your convenience.” 


76 


The Fourteenth Key 


4 ‘Some I may not care to read,” and Winslow 
gave a sudden start. “Here is the letter I wrote 
disowning Helen. I think I can’t bear to realize 
my hardheartedness and cruelty-” 

‘‘No, don’t, Grandfather. Let the dead past 
bury its dead. You thought then you had cause 
for righteous indignation,—and, too, no regret 
or remorse now, can do my mother any good. 
So, try to forget it, and let me try to make up 
to you for the long years you’ve been alone.” 

“Yes, Joyce, you are right—ah, here is a 
picture of Helen with her little baby,—you, 
Joyce, I suppose.” 

“Yes,” and the young man smiled at the wide- 
eyed infant in the photograph. “Though that 
kid looks little like the Tom Pinney who jumps 
hurdles and shoots bandits on the screen.” 

Winslow looked up suddenly. 

“No reference to those things, if you please,” 
he said sternly, and Joyce begged his pardon 
very gravely. 

There were many other things in the bag,— 
letters that Helen had started to her father, but 
had never finished. Newspaper clippings, a 
few bills and advertisements, lots of odds and 
ends that Winslow put back to examine later. 

“Where is the amethyst cross?” said Barry, 
suddenly, and Joyce replied: 

“In the little inside pocket of the bag.” 



CHAPTER V 


TWO YOUNG MEN 

Martin Barry was not a large man, he was 
slightly built and of what is known as the dapper 
type. Meticulously careful in his dress, precise 
of speech and manner, punctilious as to etiquette 
and absolutely lacking in a sense of humor, he 
had been Mark Winslow’s legal adviser for many 
years, and knew all the details of his client’s 
business life and also of his home and social life. 

Barry had been consulted, or rather informed 
in the matter of advertising for Joyce Gilray, 
and though he had expressed no disapproval, yet 
he had doubts as to the wisdom of such a course. 

But though Mark Winslow paid his lawyer for 
legal advice, he rarely accepted any other sort of 
advice from anybody, and he had put through 
his advertising plan himself, and brought about 
what seemed to him a most satisfactory result. 

But Barry was a careful lawyer, and to his 
mind Joyce must prove his identity in every 
possible way, so it was only to be on the safe side, 
that Barry stuck to his questioning. 

77 


78 


The Fourteenth Key 


The amethyst cross, Mark Winslow had long 
ago told the lawyer, was a jewel that had once 
been the property of his grandmother, and de¬ 
scending, in direct line had come into Helen's 
possession as the fourth owner in the Winslow 
family, and the natural presumption was that it 
would now belong to Joyce. 

At a nod from Joyce, Barry felt in the pocket 
of the bag, and produced a small box, from which 
he took the trinket it contained. 

It was an antique piece of jewelry, a cross of 
hand carved silver, set with pure, lucent, purple 
stones. It was not very valuable, and not so 
very beautiful, but as a means of identification 
it had great value. 

Mark Winslow took it and turned it to see the 
back. There was engraved, Mary Adams Win¬ 
slow, 1827. 

“ That’s the cross that was my grand¬ 
mother’s,” he said, with a touch of pride. See, 
the name,—grandmother’s name was Adams 
before she was married. And it came down to 
me, there being no girls in our family, and I gave 
it to Helen the day she graduated. Didn’t she 
tell you that, Joyce?” 

“ Yes, Grandfather. I remember that cross as 
long as I remember anything. Mother often wore 
it. She said she loved to watch its purple lights 
and gleams. They’re very fine stones, she said. ’ ’ 


Two Young Men 


79 


“Yes,” Mark agreed. “To be sure, ame¬ 
thysts are not really precious stones, but 
these are good ones, and the antique setting 
makes it a worthwhile piece. But its real value 
to me, is in its associations, of course. Will you 
keep it, Joyce, or shall I put it away for you 
against the time when you may present it to a 
wife?” 

“You keep it, Grandfather. And you may 
have to safeguard it for some time, for I've no 
wife in view.” 

Meantime, Martin Barry was examining the 
cross with the greatest care. 

“What’s the matter, Martin?” said Winslow. 
“ Do you think I can’t recognize my own family 
heirloom?” 

“Of course you can,” Barry returned, a little 
shortly. “But it’s astonishing how bright the 
engraving looks after all these years.” 

A slight flush rose to Gilray’s cheeks. 

“I can explain that,” he said, after a moment’s 
hesitation. * 1 There’s no reason why I shouldn’t, 
either. I met a girl, with whom I thought I was 
in love. I thought I would ask her to marry me. 
This was about three or four months ago. And 
in the anticipation, I had the cross cleaned up at 
a jeweler’s. But—well, I decided she was not 
the girl for me, and the matter never went any 
further.” 


8 o 


The Fourteenth Key 


“I'm glad of it, Joyce,” said Winslow. “I'm 
glad you're still heartwhole and can choose a wife 
from among the associates you will make here. 
Any more questions, Barry?” 

“ Why did you leave us in doubt as to whether 
you were a man or a girl?” the lawyer asked, 
looking at Gilray a little quizzically. 

The young man laughed outright. 

“It seemed so funny to me to be taken for a 
girl, that I thought I'd turn the joke back on 
Grandfather, and keep him guessing. I sort of 
hoped he’d rather have me a man, and I just 
wanted to tease him a bit. But after the rail¬ 
road accident, I had no more thought of jokes. 
I thought then only of getting here as soon as I 
could, and getting away from those horrible 
scenes and recollections.” 

Gilray gave an involuntary shudder at the 
thoughts he had conjured up and Mark turned a 
sympathizing face toward him. 

“I’m going to try to make you forget it, 
Joyce. You had a narrow escape, and I thank 
God your life was spared. Now, I think, 
Barry, there's no occasion for formalities or 
redtape. There need be no adoption or other 
papers, I simply have found my grandson, and I 
take him into my home and my life. In no 
sense do I disown Burr or feel a whit less affection 
and respect for him than I always have felt. He 


8 i 


Two Young Men 

is my brother’s grandson, and as such, is dear to 
me. But my own grandson is a closer tie, and a 
more natural heir to my estate. Burr under¬ 
stands all this, and if he feels friendly with 
Joyce, all well and good. And if he doesn’t 


“ Don’t go on, Uncle Mark, for I do feel 
friendly toward my new cousin, and I don’t 
want to know what would happen if I didn’t!” 
said Burr. 

His frank smile was so obviously sincere, and 
his outstretched hand so cordial, that Joyce 
gave it a hearty shake. 

Good old Burr,” he said, “you’re all my 
mother pictured you.” 

“What did she say about Burr?” Barry asked, 
quickly. 

Joyce turned toward him and answered, 
slowly. 

“She said many things. My mother seemed 
to be fond of her cousin Burr. She told me that 
at the time she was married Burr was a mere boy, 
about eight or ten years old, I think, but that 
he was a manly and handsome little fellow. 
As you know, she never saw him again.” 

“Burr wasn’t at your mother’s wedding.” 

“Lord, man, I know that! Nobody was,—• 
that is, nobody but two witnesses. It was a 
runaway marriage,—I say, Granddad, there’s a 



82 


The Fourteenth Key 


journal of mother’s among those papers,—you’ll 
like to read that, I know.” 

“Yes, Joyce, I shall,—after a time. These 
crowding memories are disturbing. I think I’ll 
ask you all to leave me for a little.” 

“Yes,” and Joyce sprang to his feet. “I’m a 
brute not to realize how these things must be 
tiring you out. Come on, Burr, show me about 
the house a bit.” 

The two young men went off together, and 
Barry, too, rose to depart. 

“What’s the matter with you, Martin?” 
queried Winslow, a little petulantly. “You 
seem upset at Joyce’s advent.” 

“No,—not if you’re sure that he is your , 
grandson. He doesn’t look a bit like his 
mother——•” 

“But he’s very like his father. I don’t say I 
wouldn’t rather he’d look like the Winslows, but 
he’s a fine appearing, well set up chap, and I’m 
proud of him. Now you stop this questioning 
attitude. If you doubt his identity, and I don’t 
see how you can after his proofs, keep your 
doubts to yourself,—they’re of no interest to me. 
I’m satisfied that he is my daughter’s child, and 
I suppose I’m the one to judge.” 

“Oh, yes, of course,—of course, Mr. Winslow, 
—and I haven’t any real doubts, but it’s always 
well to make assurance doubly sure.” 



Two Young Men 


83 


'‘Well, make your assurance sure as many 
times as you like, but don’t bother me about it, 
—and, especially, don’t bother Joyce. He’s had 
a hard life, and that terrible accident has shaken 
his nerves a little. I shall do my best to give 
him a happy time and help him to forget the past. 
And, another thing, there’s no need to say any¬ 
thing about his Moving Picture career, unless it 
becomes necessary later. If any one spots his 
picture on the screen, and speaks to you about it, 
send him to me, and then if necessary, I’ll own up 
frankly. But what folks don’t know won’t hurt 
’em, and I prefer to keep that matter quiet if we 
can. And we’ll wait for some reference to it 
from an outsider, before we refer to it ourselves.” 

Barry agreed deferentially and took a respect¬ 
ful leave of his client, whom he was far from 
wishing to offend. Mark Winslow’s business 
affairs were widespread, and often complicated, 
and Martin Barry would have been very sorry 
to lose his post of chief legal adviser to the 
millionaire. 

Meantime the two younger men were explor¬ 
ing the house. Without being old enough to be 
of antiquarian interest, it was a fine old man¬ 
sion, and Joyce expressed most enthusiastic 
admiration. 

“This was your mother’s room,” Burr said, 
pausing at a closed door and then opening it. 


8 4 


The Fourteenth Key 


“For a time, Uncle Mark kept it shut up, but 
he’s a sensible sort, and he finally decided to open 
it up and use it as a guest room.” 

“ Does he entertain much? ” Joyce inquired. 

“Yes, a good bit. Dinner parties and that, 
and now and then, people over the week end. 
Pretty room, isn’t it?” 

It was a pretty room, and furnished in the 
fashion of a bygone day yet still tasteful and 
attractive. 

“Mother told me about it,” Joyce said, in a 
reminiscent tone. “I can imagine her sitting at 
that dressingtable, combing out her long blonde 
hair.” 

“ Blonde? ” said Burr, “it was dark brown hair. 
I remember cousin Helen well, though I was but 
a little chap when she was here.” 

“It was dark brown when she was a girl,” 
Joyce said, “but later, she bleached it, and it was 
a pale ash blonde. I’d forgotten it, but one 
day, I remember now, I overheard my nurse 
telling another servant that my mother bleached 
her hair. She spoke as if it were a heinous sin 
to do so and I ran to mother and asked her what 
it meant. She only laughed and told me little 
boys mustn’t ask questions. So I ran off and 
forgot all about it. But the pale blonde was 
effective with her dark eyes-” 

“Dark blue eyes-” 



85 


Two Young Men 

“Yes, deep blue, almost black. And they 
looked even darker, I suppose with pale colored 
hair. She must have been a beautiful girl,—but 
her last years were not happy ones and she faded 
early. Poor mother. If only Grandfather 
could have relented during her lifetime.” 

“Come on over to my house and see mother,” 
Burr suggested. “It isn't late, and she’s crazy 
to meet you.” 

They went the few blocks to Burr’s home, 
and Joyce met Molly Winslow for the first 
time. 

“Well, young man,” she said, with a wry 
smile, “so you’ve come here to dash all my 
hopes and ambitions for this son of mine.” 

Taking his cue from her bantering tone, Joyce 
replied, “Well, you see, Mrs. Winslow, I chanced 
to be the grandson of Mark, while your son 
happens to be the grandson of Matthew.” 

“Yes, I know it, but since you had been lost 
in oblivion all these years, I think you might 
have staid so.” 

“Come, come, mother,” objected Burr, 
“that’s no way to greet our cousin. We’ve 
already accepted the situation,—now, make the 
best of it. Such remarks as you’re making 
won’t get you anywhere. I want Joyce to 13 d?* 
you,—to love you,—and he can’t if you don’t 
make him welcome.” 


86 


The Fourteenth Key 


“I don’t blame you at all, Mrs. Winslow,” 
Joyce said, “I’ve already been made welcome 
by my grandfather, and I feel I ought not to 
expect a very warm welcome from you people, 
whose plans are all upset by my appearance on 
the scene.” 

“First, don’t call me Mrs. Winslow.” Molly 
said, “let it be Molly,—or, Cousin Molly. 
I’m not an old woman, you know. Second, 
don’t mistake my attitude. Burr may admit 
your claim and may accept your presence with 
equanimity—I don’t. At first I doubted if you 
really were Joyce Gilray,—I mean if you really 
were Helen’s child. But I’ve heard enough from 
the people over at Mark’s house, to know that 
you’re undoubtedly all that you claim to be, and 
so, I can’t pull on that string. Now, I can only 
hope that you’re a wild youth, or even a bad one, 
and that your Grandfather will soon get enough 
of you and send you packing.” 

“Mother!” begged Burr, but Joyce took the 
matter lightly. 

“I hate to disoblige a lady,” he said, smiling, 
“but even for you, Cousin Molly, I can’t agree to 
rob a bank or sow a crop of wild oats. I’m an 
adventurous sort, I love danger and daring, but 
crime is out of my line. Any other favors you 
ask, I’ll be glad to consider.” 

“You seem to have your mother’s light- 


Two Young Men 


87 


hearted gayety,” Molly Winslow observed, “and 
I suppose your Western bringing up accounts for 
your breezy manner. Have you always had all 
the money you wanted? ” 

“ Not all I wanted, all of the time. But some¬ 
times I did.” 

“And you were a good fellow when you had it, 
I’ll be bound.” 

“Mother,” Burr put in, “remember, Joyce is 
only twenty-one. He hasn’t had time to have a 
very adventurous life.” 

“Twenty-one!” exclaimed Molly, “he looks 
quite as old as you do, Burr.” 

“Oh, no,” Burr said, “I’m thirty.” 

“And I’m nearly twenty-two,” Joyce said, 
“but you see, Cousin Molly, I’ve been on my 
own since I was fourteen, and that makes a chap 
look older than he really is. And I had to work 
hard a lot of the time, to make money.” 

“You had an annuity from your mother-•” 

“Yes, but not a very large one.” 

“You still have that?” 

“I hope so, but the papers are in a suitcase 
that was lost in the train wreck. Even in my 
unconsciousness I clung to the small bag that 
held my mother’s papers, but another bag that 
held my own papers was lost. Still, I daresay 
the annuity matter can be fixed up.” 

“And if not, you won’t need it now. You’ve 





88 


The Fourteenth Key 


a rich grandfather, and you’ll never want for 
money again.” 

Molly Winslow spoke bitterly, for she had 
only hate in her heart for this interloper who had 
snatched the golden spoon from her son’s mouth 
and thrust it into his own. 

Somewhat gravely, Gilray took leave of his 
cousins and went back to the Winslow house 
alone. 

He looked in the library, and found Mark 
Winslow sitting at the table immersed in the 
perusal of the papers Joyce had brought him. 

The old man lifted a face that showed traces 
of tears, but he smiled at his grandson. 

“Come in, boy. Always come in, without 
invitation. You’re mine now, part of my house¬ 
hold, my home, my life. Oh, Joyce, I’m glad 
you are not a girl child!” 

“If I had known, Grandfather, how anxious 
you were on that point I shouldn’t have per¬ 
petrated that silly joke. I am not given to that 
sort of thing, I don’t know why I did it in this 
case. But it struck me as a gay little trick, and 
I fell for the notion.” 

“ I was sure you were a boy, from that mascu¬ 
line signature to your first letter. 

“Yes, I sling a bold sort of signature, though, 
like many other people, my autograph isn’t 
like my other penmanship. But Lord knows 


8 9 


Two Young Men 

when I’ll ever write again. My busted finger is 
a bit painful tonight. Tomorrow, I think I’ll 
show it to your family practitioner. Maybe 
there’s a slight infection——” 

“ Oh, my boy, don’t go and die of blood poison¬ 
ing, when I’ve just got you here! ” 

“Never fear, Grandfather. I’m a tough nut, 
and I’ve had far closer calls than a broken 
finger.” 

“Well, we’ll have Doctor Graham over first 
thing in the morning. Tonight, you let Mrs. 
Swift take a look at it. She’s as good as a 
trained nurse. Now, about your immediate 
future, Joyce, I want you to take a couple of 
months, say, to look about and get acquainted. 
Then, in the fall I’d like you to go into my offices 
and become a first class business man and able 
eventually to handle all my affairs.” 

“That sounds good to me, and make the 
vacation season as short as you like. I only 
want time enough to pull myself together, get 
some proper clothes, and chum with the neigh¬ 
bors a bit. I’m a sociable sort, and if there are 
young people in the neighborhood, I’d like to 
meet them.” 

“Yes, of course,—of course. And there is a 
delightful younger set. Now, you shall have an 
allowance that will not be a miserly one, and 
if at any time it seems insufficient, it shall be 



90 


The Fourteenth Key 


increased. I’m not afraid to talk to you like 
this, for I can read character fairly well, and I 
judge you are no spendthrift, though I want 
you to have everything you want that money can 
get for you.” 

“Dear Grandfather, you’re too good to me,” 
and Gilray’s tone was full of deep gratitude. 
“I can never repay such kindness——■” 

“Cut out that sort of talk, boy. You can 
repay me by faithful affectionate loyalty,— 
other than that I do not ask. And more or less 
of your society. I know crabbed age and youth 
and so forth, but I’m going to ask for a portion 
of your time, and the rest you may give to your 
young friends.” 

“There’ll be no trouble about that, sir. I’m 
proud that you care for my society.” 

Going to his room, Gilray found Mrs. Swift 
hovering about, like a motherly hen, waiting for 
her chicken. 

She examined the troublesome finger, and 
declared it was but a slight injury and would 
soon be all right again. She treated it with 
disinfectants and bound it up with all the skill 
of a trained nurse. 

“ Bully for you, Mrs. Swift,” exclaimed Gilray. 
“You’ve had hospital experience?” 

“Just a bit of war nursing,” returned the 
smiling lady. “Now, Mr. Joyce, if there’s 



9i 


Two Young Men 

anything amiss with your quarters or if you want 
anything at all just let me know, and I’ll make it 
all right.” 

“Mrs. Swift, I believe I have everything in 
this world but trouble. I don’t seem to see any 
sign of that.” 

“Bless us, Mr. Joyce, don’t say such things! 
Why, that’s as good as asking for trouble! My 
Heavens, how can you talk so? ” 

“Nonsense, that was but a joke. For, truly, 
I’ve everything that heart can wish, and prospect 
of further blessings to come.” 

“I think you have your mother’s happy dis¬ 
position, sir. She was always joyous and 
gay.” 

“I hope I am like her in many ways, I revere 
her memory-* ’ ’ 

“You don’t look one bit like her, Mr. Joyce.” 

“No, I’m told I’m the image of my father-” 

“Your father! Lord, you don’t look any 
more like him than I do!” 

“You knew him, then?” 

“I should say I did. Why, I’ve been here 
ever since Mr. Winslow built this house. Your 
father,—I knew him better than Mr. Winslow 
did himself. You see, as housekeeper then, I 
had to do with the kitchen and the cooking,—I 
don’t now. But that chauffeur ate many a 
meal of my preparing and enjoyed it, too. To 





92 The Fourteenth Key 

begin with you’re twice his size. Gilray was a 
little chap.” 

“Oh, average size, Mrs. Swift. I knew my 
father myself, you see, until I was six years old, 
when he died. Even a kid of six can remember 
a man’s appearance.” 

“That’s just it, sir. To a baby his father 
always looks a big man.” 

“All right, I’ll grant he was no giant.” 

“And not only that, but you’ve no facial 
resemblance. Why, Gilray’s face was long and 
thin,—yours is almost round—*—” 

“Well, Mrs. Swift, I’m sorry not to be more 
like my parents, either of them,—but I can’t see 
as it makes any real difference to any of us.” 

The tone was a little curt, for Joyce was tired 
of the woman’s chatter and wanted to be rid of 
her. 

Mrs. Swift took the hint, and after looking 
about the room to see that the maid had arranged 
all properly for the night, she bowed her way 
out. 

Joyce Gilray went to the mirror and gazed at 
his own face. 

“Guess I’m not as much like my father as I 
thought,” he murmured, half aloud. “Yet I’ve 
been told all my life that I was the image of 
him. ’ ’ Here the funny little crooked smile came 
to his features. 



Two Young Men 


93 


“ Also, I’ve got to cut out that grin,” he went 
on, thoughtfully. 4 ‘ Grandfather doesn’t like 
it,—and X don’t blame him. It’s an asset in the 
movies, but not in society. Well, I’ll practice on 
a better one.” 

And for a full half hour, the whimsical fellow 
stood before the glass, smiling politely, even 
sweetly, and actually acquiring a conventional 
smile that he felt sure he could remember to use 
on all occasions. 

Getting ready for bed, he looked with distaste 
on his inexpensive pajamas and simple toilet 
appointments. 

“You bet I’ll get some things that will fit into 
this scenery,” he told himself, glancing round 
the beautiful and comfortable rooms. 

And then he plunged into bed to dream of his 
happy future and his coming joys. 

Below stairs the servants discussed the 
newcomer. 

“Not a bit like father or mother,” declared 
Mrs. Swift importantly. “I’ve been a putting 
him to bed, and I couldn’t see a bit of likeness.” 

“Not in his face, no,” agreed Jenks, the old 
butler. “But I’ll say, Mrs. Swift, he has the 
traits of both. Why, his gay, jolly way is for all 
the world like Miss Helen, bless her. And his 
big, masterful manner is the way Gilray usedjo 
act.” 


94 


The Fourteenth Key 


" Gilray was a little man-” 

"I know that, but he had a big way with him. 
High-handed, masterful,—that’s what Gilray 
was when he was our chauffeur. And young 
Joyce, is like that. He’ll stand up to his grand¬ 
father, too, if the time comes. Oh, yes, now it’s 
all honey and cream, but that young chap has a 
will of his own, or I miss my guess! That’s like 
his mother, too. Did Miss Helen have a will of 
her own? Well, did she! When her father 
wouldn’t let her marry Gilray, what did she do? 
She took the bit in her teeth, and ran away. 
And when her father cut her off with a shilling, 
she never talked back, she accepted the situation. 
There’s character for you. There’s strength 
of will for you. And her son is just like 
her. And like his father. Big minded, strong 
willed, hardfisted,—oh, he’ll fight if necessary 


''There, there, Jenks,” and Mrs. Swift gave 
him a supercilious glance, "you’re talking of 
what you know nothing about. What are you 
to judge the character of your betters like that? 
You’re talking nonsense.” 

"Not so, Mrs. Swift,—not so. I am a reader 
of character. I haven’t lived all these -years 
with Mr. Winslow for nothing. Many’s the 
time I’ve heard him size up the character of a 
stranger after one interview. And always right. 




95 


Two Young Men 

And I’ve caught the knack, Mrs. Swift,—I’ve 

caught the knack-” 

“Oh, you and your knack! You make me 
laugh. Get about your business, Jenks, and 
don’t meddle with matters above your head.” 



CHAPTER VI 


OLD PHOTOGRAPHS 

As the days went by Joyce Gilray became 
more and more an integral part of the Winslow 
household. 

Mark Winslow's sharp eyes watched him and 
could find nothing to cavil at in the young man’s 
attitude and behavior toward himself or any 
one else. 

Joyce was pleasant to the servants, but digni¬ 
fied and impersonal in his manner. He was 
friendly with Burr, but the two were not inti¬ 
mately chummy. He was polite to Barry, but 
it could be noticed that these two were not con¬ 
genial. A sort of veiled hostility was discerned 
by Winslow, and while his sympathies were 
entirely with his grandson, he watched carefully 
to see what it was that Barry resented. 

It could not be the mere advent of a grandson, 
—Burr might resent that, but not Barry. Yet, 
it was clear that the lawyer did not like Joyce, 
and was at no pains to pretend that he did. 

96 


Old Photographs 97 

As a grandson, Joyce was little short of per¬ 
fection. 

Without fawning or silly demonstrations of 
affection, he showed a respect for Mark Winslow 
and a decided liking for his society. 

Many an evening he spent at home with his 
grandfather, though invited to some gayer 
entertainment. 

Mark appreciated this, and while he made no 
comment, it pleased him, for he greatly preferred 
the unspoken friendship and chumminess of his 
grandson to definite protestations of love. 

So, Joyce and he became friends as well as 
relatives, and one evening as they sat alone to¬ 
gether, Winslow broached the subject of a 
change of name. 

"How would you look on a suggestion that 
you change your name?” he said, rather abruptly 

Joyce looked up with a startled face. 

"What do you mean, Granfer? ” he said, for he 
had chosen to adopt the quaint diminutive, and 
Mark liked it. 

" Good Heavens, Joyce, don't look as if I were 
proposing a crime! Or compounding a felony, 
or anything dishonorable. I only thought I 
should like to have the Winslow name perpetu¬ 
ated, and if you cared to, you could have your 
name legally changed to Joyce Gilray Winslow. 
What do you say?" 




98 The Fourteenth Key 

“I suppose I looked surprised because it's a 
novel idea to me. I’ve never thought of such a 
thing-—” 

“Well, think of it now, then. What do you 
say? It can’t be a matter requiring long or 
deep meditation.” 

“No.” Joyce spoke slowly. “Well, I see no 
real objection to it. Is it a complicated 
process?” 

“ Oh, no; though the authorities might require 
your baptismal certificate, and that I do not 
find among your mother’s papers. Know any¬ 
thing about it?” 

“Never saw it or heard of it. Never even 
thought of it. I’m not at all sure that I was, 
baptized, though I suppose I must have been.” 

“ Of course you were. Your mother was not a 
heathen, if she was a runaway. Well, if the 
papers I have of your mother’s are sufficient and 
if you are willing, I think I’ll put the matter 
through. You see my will as it now stands, 
makes my chief legatee, ‘my grandchild, Joyce 
Gilxay.’ I want to change that to ‘my grandson, 
Joyce Gilray,’ but if we change your name, I’ll * 
not revamp the will until I can make it out to 
your new name. You see, if I should die before 
the change is made, it will all be yours just the 
same-” 

“Don’t, Granfer,” Joyce put out a pleading 




Old Photographs 99 

hand, “for Heaven’s sake stay with me a while, 
now that I’ve found you!” 

That was the sort of thing Mark Winslow liked, 
a desire for his company, rather than a diatribe 
against suggestions of death. 

“Oh, I’m good for a long stretch yet,” he 
laughed. “But soon now, my boy, I want to 
begin to initiate you into the details of my 
affairs. Not the business yet, that will all come 
later, but I want you to know all about my 
estate and my investments and my securities. 
It may be, after all, that I shall prefer you as my 
confidential assistant and secretary, instead of 
putting you in the business offices.” 

“But Burr has that post.” 

“I know it, but there’s nothing to prevent my 
making a change, if I choose. You know Burr. 
You know he won’t complain.” 

“No, Burr is the whitest fellow I ever saw 
about such things. He accepts my presence 
here as a matter of course, and makes no objec¬ 
tions to anything I do.” 

“Why should he? He has no rights save such 
as I voluntarily give him. You have rights by 
birth,—by relationship.” 

Followed a short session of explanations con¬ 
cerning the details of Mark Winslow’s moneys 
and properties, and Joyce listened in a respectful 
silence, save when he asked some pertinent and 


ioo The Fourteenth Key 

intelligent questions regarding the subject in 
hand. 

“Well, old chap,” said Mark, as the clock 
chimed midnight, “it’s been a pleasure to talk 
business to you. I don’t know where you got 
such a quick sense of these matters, but your 
brain is keen and your judgment sound.” 

“Probably I inherited whatever talent I 
possess for such things from my maternal grand¬ 
father,” and Joyce gave his new, frank smile, 
that he had already cultivated successfully. 

“It may be,—it may be,” and the old man 
rubbed his hands in satisfaction. “Now, to¬ 
morrow, boy, you make tracks for the metrop¬ 
olis, and lay in a store of clothing and anything 
else you need or want. Stay two or three days, 
and don’t stint yourself. I’ll give you a letter 
to my tailor and haberdasher and all that sort of 
thing, and you order all you like and put it on 
my account. They’ll give you good attention, 
never fear.” 

Unmistakable gratitude and affection showed 
on Gilray’s face. 

“Dear Grandfather,” he said, and there was a 
quiver in his voice, “you’re too good to me 

_ »» 

“Nonsense! what’s a few clothes more or less. 
And, I see, you don’t care for jewelry, for which 
I’m thankful, but you’ll want some decent cuff 



Old Photographs ioi 

links and evening studs and such things. Get 
whatever you choose, I trust your taste and 
discretion. Order yourself some stationery and, 
—oh, Lord, Joyce, get whatever a young man 
ought to have, and don’t scrimp.” 

“So my grandfather is a Fairy Godfather as 
well. I’ll do all you say, for I want my appear¬ 
ance to do you credit. But I’ll be reasonably 
modest in my desires. You know I’ve not been 
brought up in the lap of luxury, and I’m a little 
out of my depths.” 

After settling a few more details, they 
separated for the night and Joyce went up to his 
rooms, his mind full of tailors and jewelers and 
an eventful trip to New York City. 

Half an hour later he was again out in the 
hall. In dressing-gown and slippers he was 
softly descending the stairs. He crept down to 
his grandfather’s library and listened a moment 
at the door, which stood ajar. 

He glanced about the darkened hall, and then 
slipped into the library. Tinning on one small 
desk lamp, he began a systematic search of the 
papers and letters in the pigeonholes. 

Quickly he scanned many of them and as 
swiftly returned them to their places. At last, 
he came upon two letters that seemed to be 
what he wanted. These he studied long and 
earnestly. Tucking them back into place, he 


102 


The Fourteenth Key 


picked up a small pad of blank paper, snapped 
off the light, and returned quietly to his room. 

When Mark Winslow entered the breakfast 
room the next morning, Mrs. Swift approached 
him with a determined air. 

“Mr. Winslow,” she said, without preamble, 
“I consider it my duty to tell you of something 
that occurred last night.” 

“Tell it, then, Mrs. Swift,” and Winslow 
looked at her, calmly, “but make it short.” 

“Very well, then, sir, it’s only that Mr. Joyce 
came down stairs stealthily, after you had gone 
to bed, and went into your library and rummaged 
among your papers.” 

“And you spied upon him?” 

“I did, sir. I considered such a strange 
occurrence should be reported to you, so I 
watched him. He was there some time, and 
finally came out and slyly sneaked upstairs 
again.” 

“I object to your use of the words, slyly and 
sneaked. But let that pass for the moment. 
How did you chance to be up and about your¬ 
self?”* 

“I never retire until the household is all in 
bed. I looked out of my door to make sure all 
lights were out, when I saw Mr. Joyce going 
down stairs. And I followed.” 

Mark Winslow looked at her. She was quite 


103 


Old Photographs 

uncertain whether he was about to address her 
with scathing wrath or whether he would be 
pleased at her conduct. 

“Summon Jenks,” he said. 

When the butler appeared, Winslow said, 
“Ask Mr. Joyce to come down as soon as he is 
ready.” 

In less than two minutes, Joyce came into the 
room. 

“Joyce, my boy, Mrs. Swift says you sneaked 
downstairs in the night.” 

“Yes, I did,” was the frank reply, but the 
smiling face took on a puzzled look. “What 
about it?” 

“She says, further, that you rummaged 
among my papers in the library.” 

“I did, until I found what I was after,” 
Joyce grinned. 

“And what was that?” 

“A pad of blank paper. I wanted to make 
lists of the things I’m to buy in New York, and 
there was no paper in my desk except the 
sumptuous house stationery. It seemed a shame 
to use that, so I hopped down for some scribbling 
paper. But,” his smile faded, “I object to the 
use of the word sneaked . Will Mrs. Swift say 
why she used that word?” 

The eyes of Joyce Gilray darkened, and his 
jaws set themselves together, much in the 


104 The Fourteenth Key 

fashion of Mark Winslow’s own celebrated 
sternness. 

“I used that word, Mr. Joyce,” the house¬ 
keeper began, but her voice shook and her lips 
trembled as she went on; '‘because you were so 
stealthy in your movements-” 

“As who wouldn’t be, not wishing to awake a 
sleeping house at one o’clock in the morning. 
Grandfather, I’ve no wish to discuss this thing 
with your housekeeper, but I say to you, if 
you’ve any questions to put or observations to 
make, concerning the matter, go ahead. For 
Mrs. Swift I have no explanations, no excuses; 
but if you question my right to go about the 
house at night, if you have a breath of suspicion 
of the truth of my explanation or a trace of 
doubt of my integrity and loyalty, now is the 
time to say so. Not one further moment would 
I stay in this house if you, Grandfather, can 
think for an instant that I went to the library 
for any other purpose than the one I state. 
Moreover, you gave me free-hand with your 
papers and financial matters. You kept nothing 
back, nothing secret. I should not dream of 
going secretly to look into your desk, but I must 
remark, that you gave me sufficient permission 
to do so if I wished.” 

“That’s all true, my boy,—I know you went 
only for the scribbling paper, you don’t have to 



Old Photographs 


105 


asseverate your statements to me. Mrs. Swift, 
you need not apologize, your error is too grave 
for that. Shall I dismiss her, Joyce? " 

"Oh, no, Grandfather. Mrs. Swift doesn't 
know me as well as you do. Also, I think she is 
suspicious by nature. Let us all forget the 
incident and if Mrs. Swift again sees reason to 
doubt my integrity in any way, we can treat the 
matter more seriously." 

The housekeeper was dismissed without a 
further word, which hurt her feelings far more 
than a stinging reprimand would have done. 

"Queer," said Joyce, "that woman has had 
it in for me almost from the first. I don’t 
understand her." 

"Don’t bother about her," said Winslow, 
carelessly. "If she annoys you again, she shall 
be summarily dismissed." 

So Gilray went on his trip to New York, and 
expended a small fortune in accordance with his 
grandfather’s instructions. 

He enjoyed it, too, as what young man would 
not. He enjoyed it so much that he overstayed 
by four days the time he had planned to be 
absent. 

"All right, boy," said Mark Winslow, on his 
return, "but staying over like that,—you should 
have telephoned me, or wired." 

"Right you are, Granfer," Joyce’s face showed 


106 The Fourteenth Key 

real contrition. “I’m downright sorry,—but 
I never thought about that. You can’t put an 
old head on young shoulders, you know. But it 
sha’n’t happen again,—that I promise.” 

He was readily forgiven, for Winslow was so 
glad to have him back that he speedily forgot 
the tardy return. 

“And I say, Grandfer,” Joyce went on, “I 
hate to ask for anything more, when you’ve been 
so good to me, but can I have a car of my own? 
One to drive myself, you know. Then I should 
have nothing left to wish for.” 

“ Of course you can,” was the hearty response. 
“You can choose one of the cars in the garage for 
your own,—or, if you prefer, you can have a 
brand new one.” 

“The new one, please,—and—a good one.” 

“A good one, of course,” and Winslow smiled 
at him. “We’ll go to town together to pick it 
out.” 

But if Joyce Gilray was persona grata with his 
grandfather, he was not so with his grandfather’s 
lawyer. 

Martin Barry took no pains to conceal his 
indifference to Joyce save when the austere 
presence of Mark Winslow made it politic for 
him to do so. 

One day he chanced to be alone with Gilray in 
Winslow’s library. 


107 


Old Photographs 

This room was study and home office as well as 
library, and the large apartment contained all 
Mark Winslow’s papers and documents as well as 
his books. 

Barry seemed to be eager to avail himself of 
an opportunity to speak to the young man. 

“I say,” he began, directly, “you lived with 
your mother till you were fourteen, didn’t 
you?” 

“Yes,” said Joyce, sensing hostility in the 
lawyer’s air, and quickly on the defensive. 

“Then, you remember her distinctly?” 

“Of course,—why?” Joyce lighted a cigar¬ 
ette, and looked inquiringly at the other. 

“Is this her picture?” Quite suddenly the 
lawyer drew a picture from a small drawer in the 
desk and held it before Gilray’s eyes. 

Those eyes narrowed with indignation and 
resentment as their owner realized he was being 
tested. 

But he only glanced at the picture and said, 
quietly, “No.” 

Barry looked a little discomfited, but opening 
another small drawer he took therefrom a packet 
of old photographs. 

“Will you select your mother’s picture from 
these?” he asked, with an exaggerated air of 
politeness. 

Gilray gave a quick, steady glance at the 


108 The Fourteenth Key 

smiling face, and saying “Wait a minute,” he 
left the room. 

Barry heard him go swiftly upstairs and down 
again, and then returning to the library, Joyce 
closed the door behind him. 

“Look here, Mr. Barry,” he said, in a stem, 
even tone, “your questions are not unfair, but I 
resent your attitude. You seem suspicious of 
something—I don’t know what. But I won’t 
have it. If you have any doubts of my identity, 
or my good faith in any way, come out into the 
open like a man and put them into words. I 
deny your right to ask covert questions, to try, 
apparently, to trip me up,—to set traps for me. 
I won’t stand it, and I demand an explanation. 

“But first, as to this photograph business. 
What possible reason could you have for asking 
me to pick out my mother’s picture, except to see 
if I can do it? Now, I admit that I might be 
wrong. These are all pictures of a bygone day, 
and if my mother’s picture is among them it may 
well be of her as a very young girl, and in an old 
fashioned costume, and therefore so different 
from my own recollections of my mother, that as, 
I say, I might well make a mistake. Yet I am 
willing to try,—but first, I will show you this 
picture that I went upstairs to get. This is my 
mother as I knew her best. Taken less than 
two years before she died, and inscribed, as you 


Old Photographs 109 

see, on the back, 'To Joyce, with a merry Christ¬ 
mas.’ My grandfather will tell you that that is 
my mother’s writing,—since you seem to doubt 
my veracity.” 

Gilray’s eyes were stormy now, and his jaws 
were set, after the manner of the Winslow 
jaws. 

Barry looked crestfallen, and endeavored to 
turn off the matter lightly. 

"Oh, don’t be so serious. My photograph 
game was merely a joke-” 

"A very poor joke, and of a sort that I advise 
you not to try again.” 

Gilray spoke sternly and with the aix of a 
master reprimanding a fractious pupil. 

Barry writhed under this tone, but dared not 
show resentment, for he knew Gilray was under 
Winslow’s protection and so had the whip 
hand. 

"I’m not through yet,” Joyce went on, for he 
heard Mark Winslow’s step in the hall, and 
determined to put the annoying Barry in his 
place. 

"Come in, Grandfather,” he said, rising and 
flinging open the library door. "What do you 
think Mr. Barry is up to now? Trying to trip 
me up by making me guess which of a lot of 
photographs is my mother’s picture!” 

"Where did you get the pictures, Barry?” 



no The Fourteenth Key 

and Mark Winslow’s voice was ominously cool 
and calm. 

“From your desk drawer,” said Barry, striv¬ 
ing to speak gaily. “I only meant to have a bit 
of sport with Joyce here-” 

“Mr. Gilray, if you please,” and Joyce turned 
on him. “I’ve never asked you to use my Chris-^ 
tian name, that I remember.” 

“Let me get the straight of this photograph 
story,” persisted Winslow. “I want to know 
just what happened.” 

In a few words Joyce told him exactly what 
had happened, and he nodded. 

“Barry, you have before this hinted some 
vague doubts of my grandson’s identity. Have 
you any real reasons for doubt?” 

“No, I haven’t,” Barry said, “I only felt that 
in a matter of such grave importance we couldn’t 
be too careful to prevent imposture-” 

“Imposture!” Winslow fairly shouted at him. 
“That settles it! Martin Barry you get out of 
that door, and don’t you ever enter it again! 
I’ll send your successor to you to get all neces¬ 
sary information and details of my affairs in 
which you are involved. Now, go!” 

Mark Winslow’s jaws came together with a 
mighty snap, and few men would have dared a 
word of excuse or self-defence to the towering 
figure fairly shaking with rage. 




Old Photographs in 

At any rate Martin Barry braved no such 
wrath, and without a word he picked up his hat 
and stalked out with an air of bravado that was 
palpably assumed. 

“Well, Grandfather,-” Joyce began, but 

Winslow interrupted. 

“Hold on/’ he said, still glowering, “what’s 
that picture of your mother you have there? 
Why haven’t you shown it to me before? ” 

Joyce Gilray threw back his head, and almost 
spoke angrily in return for the other’s sharp tones. 

Then, thinking better of it, his voice sank to a 
tender note, as he said, “I didn’t show it to you, 
Grandfather, because I feared it might sadden 
you. It shows mother as she was near the last, 
—after she grew faded, and ill,—old before her 
time. Here it is, and you can see for yourself 
what I mean. I retained it, thinking to show it 
to you some day, unless my judgment bid me 
refrain.” 

He passed over the picture and Mark 
Winslow’s eyes filled as he gazed at it. 

“You were right, Joyce,” he said in a quiver¬ 
ing voice. “Poor dear little Helen. And she 
came to look like that,—at only thirty-four! 
Poor, dear little girl.” 

And Joyce Gilray stole softly from the room, 
lest he disturb the reverie into which the old man 
sank. 



II2 


The Fourteenth Key 


It was about a week later, when a strange thing 
occurred to shake the Winslow household out of 
the pleasant calm into which they were drifting. 

Barry was out of the way, Mrs. Swift was 
lamb-like in her demeanor and Burr and Gilray 
were fast becoming very good friends. 

Joyce was rapidly becoming a society favorite, 
his good looks, good dancing and gay spirits 
charming the girls and pleasing their mothers : 
in the social set of Willowvale. 

Early in the morning, Jenks, as usual, opened 
doors and windows and got the house ready for 
the day. 

On the verandah, just outside the library 
windows, he saw a huddled form lying very 
still. 

Going nearer, to his unbounded astonishment, 
he discovered it was a young woman, rather 
gaily dressed in sport clothes, and of a type 
not often seen around Mark Winslow’s home. \ 

A very brief examination proved to Jenks’ 
horror that the woman was dead, and what to do 
then even the resourceful Jenks did not know. 

He was tempted to call some help and have 
the body carried away before Mr. Winslow could 
know of it. For Jenks had made it his life 
work to spare his employer all distress or annoy¬ 
ance possible. 

But he felt sure this was not the right thing to 


Old Photographs 113 

do, and he knew in his heart that Mark Winslow 
must be told. 

A fleeting impulse was to call Mr. Joyce first, 
and so save Winslow a shock. But Jenks knew 
his master too well, to seem to set any one over 
or ahead of him in authority, and with a sinking 
heart, he called the second man to guard the 
body while he went to tell Mr. Winslow. 

“ Lord save us!” cried the other servant, 
“who is she?” 

“I haven’t a notion,” returned Jenks, “have 
you?” 

‘ ‘ Massy, no! She looks a trollop,—that’s all I 
have to say.” 

“You’ve nothing to say,” admonished Jenks, 
severely. “You stay right there and keep watch 
and if the maids come out here send them about 
their business. At any rate, don’t let anybody 
touch her.” 

“Touch her!” exclaimed the other, rolling his 
eyes upward, as if to touch the stranger would be 
the last thing he should think of. 

So Jenks went upstairs. 


CHAPTER VII 


A TRAGEDY 

“For Heaven’s sake, Jenks, try to control 
yourself!” Mark Winslow spoke sharply to the 
man in his doorway. “Who is downstairs on 
the verandah? ” 

The butler still shook nervously, but managed 
to ejaculate, “a—a woman, sir,—a young 
woman-” 

■ 1 What is she ? An agent ? A beggar ?’ 9 

“She’s—she’s dead, sir-’ 

“What! ” and Winslow jumped out of bed and 
began to hurry into his clothes. “What do you 
mean—dead?” 

“Just that, sir.” Jenks found it easier now 
that the ice was broken. “A young woman, 
lying on the porch,—the East porch,—and stone 
dead!” 

“Impossible? Incredible! But don’t tell me 
any more,—I’ll be down there in a minute. Go 
and tell Mr. Joyce, I shall want his help—• 
if this thing is true—is it, Jenks? ” 

“Yes, sir,—so help me, God,-” 

“Never mind calling on Providence to help,— 





A Tragedy 115 

go and rout out Mr. Joyce and tell him to 
hustle.” 

Winslow dressed completely, but with sure, 
swift motions that sent him downstairs inside of 
five minutes. 

Joyce made no response to the butler’s light 
knock, so Jenks stepped into his room and woke 
him with a slight shake. 

“What’s the matter?” Gilray cried, alert at 
once. 

“ There’s a woman dead down on the porch— 
she—she—” Jenks became incoherent again. 

“A what?” Joyce stared at him. 

“A woman, sir,—a dead woman—Mr. 
Winslow has gone down, and he wants you-” 

“ I should think he did! Get out, Jenks,—I’ll 
be down in two shakes—hold on, who is she? 
Do you know? ” 

“ No, sir,—never saw her before,—she’s—she’s 
not a lady, sir.” 

Joyce made record speed and hurrying down 
stairs, found Winslow bending over the body 
with an air of bewilderment. 

“Most extraordinary, Joyce,” he said, “see, 
the poor thing has been stabbed in the throat. 
Some ruffian—but, why, in the name of goodness 
on my porch?” 

“Good Lord, how awful!” Joyce exclaimed, as 
his grandfather stood upright, and he got a clearer 



n6 The Fourteenth Key 

view of the terrible scene. “And what quanti¬ 
ties of blood—oh, the poor girl! Who is she?” 

“Nobody knows,—I mean none of our 
people-” 

“What’s to be done? What can I do to 
help?” 

Joyce spoke briskly, anxious to save his grand¬ 
father all possible responsibility, and ready to 
take the helm if desired. 

“I don’t know,” Winslow said, uncertainly. 
“I’ve heard one must not touch a dead body 
until the coroner arrives-” 

“Lord, who’d want to touch it-” 

“Well, I’d rather remove it into the house 
than have it out here where any one can see 
it-” 

“No, Grandfather, don’t take it in the house. 
Let’s send for the coroner at once and he’ll 
take it away somewhere. I suppose however it 
happened, it’s merely an accident that it 
occurred here. The girl must have been walking 
by, and was attacked by some brute, and ran 
in here for shelter,—and he followed,—and 
killed her. That’s the way it looks, but there 
may be some different explanation. That isn’t 
our business, though. I say, Granfer, I think 
first of all you ought to call a doctor.” 

“But the poor thing is dead, Joyce.” 

“I know, but—well, my only knowledge of 



ii 7 


A Tragedy 

these things is based on murder stories I’ve read, 
and they always call a doctor first/* 

"It’s a good idea,” Winslow agreed, “and 
anyway, Doctor Murray will know what to do. 
Call him, Jenks,—call Doctor Murray, and tell 
him to come over at once. Don't tell him why, 
unless you have to. Just tell him it's a serious 
matter. He’ll come. And then call Mr. Burr 
Winslow. I depend a lot on Burr’s judgment 
and wisdom.” 

If Gilray resented this, he did not show it, 
and turning to Winslow, he said, “Come along 
to breakfast, Granfer. Mrs. Swift will hurry 
it up a bit, I’m sure, and you’d better have your 
coffee to brace you up for what may be a trying 
day.” 

“Oh, I can’t eat, Joyce-” 

“You can try, and you must. The servants 
will do all that’s necessary in the way of guarding 
the—the body, and when Doctor Murray comes 
he will shoulder the responsibility and know just 
what to do. Come along.” 

The two went to the breakfast room, and 
Joyce, with his quick tact introduced some other 
subjects, and so diverted Winslow’s mind from 
the tragedy that the old man managed to make a 
good breakfast. 

Doctor Murray came, and after an exami¬ 
nation of the dead woman’s body, he joined the 



II8 


The Fourteenth Key 


others at the table and asked for a cup of coffee 
for himself. 

“It’s a most unfortunate thing, Winslow,” he 
said, “that she should have died on your estate. 
It’s bound to make unpleasant publicity if 
nothing else. But I’ve called the Medical Ex¬ 
aminer,^Tenney, and he’ll bring some men from 
Headquarters,—oh, yes, you can’t escape all 
that sort of thing.” 

For Mark Winslow had turned an imploring 
face to the doctor, as if begging off from such 
unpleasantness. 

“As I see it,” Joyce said, “we are in for a 
regular inquest and all that. I hope, Doctor 
Murray, that I can meet the Examiner and his 
aids and take the brunt of the trouble off of my 
grandfather’s shoulders.’’ 

“You can do a lot, Gilray,” said the doctor, 
who knew and liked Joyce. “ But of course they 
will question you, too, Winslow. However, 
it’ll be just red tape, and while it’s mighty un¬ 
pleasant, it’s all impersonal. I mean it isn’t as 
if any of your family or people were implicated.” 

“That’s just it, Murray.” Winslow’s voice 
was low. “Of course not my family, but how do 
I know that none of my servants is implicated? ” 

“Well, that’s as may be. But I fancy she 
came in from outside, and it merely chanced, 
that it was this house she came to. I don’t 


A Tragedy 119 

think she belongs in Willowvale,—I never saw 
her before.” 

“ She’s a good looking piece,” Mark observed, 
in an impersonal tone. 

“Yes,” said the doctor, “but ordinary. 
Flashy clothes, tawdry jewelry, and dyed hair. 
Lots of make-up on her face,—and yet, she must 
have been pretty, in a cheap way.” 

“Where do you suppose she came from?” 
asked Joyce, wonderingly. 

“There’s no telling. And that’s outside my 
province. Tenney is a clever chap, he finds 
clues,—if there are any to find. I haven’t seen 
any myself.” 

11 Footprints ? Fingerprints ? ’ ’ asked Gilray. 
“You see, I’ve read lots of detective stories, and 
they depend a lot on prints.” 

“Yes,” said Doctor Murray, dryly, “in the 
stories the criminals obligingly leave prints for 
the astute detective to find. But prints,— 
legible ones, are rare in real life.” 

And then the authorities came, and the trio 
rose from the table and went out to meet them. 

“Bad business,” said Doctor Tenney, bending 
over the tragic figure. Stabbed with a——• ’ ’ 

“With a long, wide-bladed dagger,” Doctor 
Murray interrupted, anxious to be of importance. 

“Knife,” corrected Doctor Tenney, “knife, 
not dagger. For you see the cut where it entered 



120 


The Fourteenth Key 


is wider at one end then the other. A dagger 
incision would be pointed at both ends.” 

Gilray turned aside,—this discussion of the 
sickening details was almost too much for him. 
He wanted to stand by and help Winslow, 
but he shrank from the actualities of the murder. 

“An awful jab,” went on Tenney, almost, it 
seemed to Joyce, with a relish, “she must have 
died instantly, before she could utter a scream.” 

“You don't think then,” said Murray, “that 
she was killed elsewhere and brought here after¬ 
ward?” 

“Not a chance of it. There would have been 
a trail of blood, and other marks in the dust. 
No, she fell just where she lies now,—you see 
there's no sign of a struggle,—nor did she stand 
around here long. There are almost no tracks 
in the dust of the porch,—in fact there's almost 
no dust. What do you make of it all, Fuller?" 

The police detective, Guy Fuller, hadn't said 
much as yet, but on being thus appealed to, he 
spoke at some length. 

“I quite agree with all you've said, Doctor 
Tenney,” he declared. “And I'm sure this 
woman does not belong in Willowvale. I’m 
pretty well acquainted here, and she’s such a 
conspicuous figure, I’m sure I should have seen 
her around town if she had lived here. Now, she 
may have drifted in from anywhere, and by 


121 


A Tragedy 

any means. All that is pure speculation,—I 
mean, whether she came in a motor car, on the 
train, or was walking. I see no helpful foot¬ 
prints,—except,—yes, by Jove, there are some!” 

The young man ran down the few verandah 
steps and along the lawn. 

“See,” he cried, “in the smooth grass, you can 
faintly discern footprints, though I’m quite 
ready to admit they may have nothing to do 
with the matter in hand.” 

The other men followed him, and looked 
intently at the faint depressions in the grass, 
which he pointed out. 

“As I read them,” Fuller went on, more as if 
thinking aloud than talking to others, “here are 
two sets of prints, side by side,—don’t tread on 
them, Doctor Murray! They are indistinct, and 
incomplete, yet it looks as if the woman and a 
man came in from the street, and crossed this 
lawn to the porch. Then, you see here is an¬ 
other set of the man’s footprints,——•” 

“I can’t see them,” said Joyce, who was 
intently listening and looking , 11 where are they? ’ ’ 
“They are almost indiscernible,” admitted 
the young detective, “but I am sure they are 
there. See, here’s a fairly clear impression—*— ’ ’ 
“Well, they’re certainly not clear enough to 
base any conclusions on,” said Doctor Murray, a 
little contemptuously. 




122 


The Fourteenth Key 


“If we get the conclusion that a man brought 
the woman here, that’s a lot,” said Doctor 
Tenney, with a glance at Mark Winslow. 

“You bet it is!” agreed the old man. “Why 
that would let out my servants-” 

“Not necessarily. A servant of yours could 
have gone out, and come back with the girl, 
thus making the two sets of tracks, outgoing and 
incoming.” 

Some minutes before, Burr Winslow had 
joined the group, but save for a word -of greeting 
to Mark and Gilray, had said nothing. Now he 
spoke. 

“Thoseprints are pretty faint, Mr. Fuller, but 
they are there, and must have been made, I 
should say, by a man walking beside a woman. 
Though indefinite in outline, the size proves that. 
Now, here you can notice, the outgoing footprint 
is over the incoming one. Doesn’t that prove 
the man came in and then went out? ” 

“Yes,” agreed the detective, none too well 
pleased to have an outsider score a point. “But 
that doesn’t let out Mr. Winslow’s servants 
entirely, for a man could come in with the woman 
go out again alone, and then return to the house 
by some other way—or path.” 

“And pray why should you suspect my 
servants?” asked Winslow, his voice calm and 
steady, but with stormy eyes. 



123 


A Tragedy 

“I don’t,’' said Fuller, promptly, “but it is my 
duty to investigate the entire household of a man 
on whose premises a dead body is found, and I 
propose to do so.” 

Winslow’s attitude changed suddenly. 

“Of course,” he said, urbanely. “That is 
only right. The place is entirely at your dis¬ 
posal. May I ask you to do it up as quickly as 
you can?” 

“We will, Mr. Winslow, but it is not a small 
job. The law must take its course, and as we 
all know, that course is sometimes long and 
tedious. Now, Darrow,” he spoke to one of the 
attendant policemen, “you set a guard over 
those footprints. They may not mean a thing 
or they may be a valuable clue. Now let’s see 
what we can learn from the body itself, and then 
it can be taken away. Mr. Winslow, you need 
not attend these harrowing scenes-” 

“I’m not fond of harrowing scenes,” Mark 
Winslow returned, with a grim smile, “but I 
propose to know all about the tragedy that has 
taken place on my premises, so be prepared to 
have me dog your footsteps, Mr. Detective, all 
day long,—if you are here all day.” 

“I’m afraid I shall be,” was the rueful reply, 
“but I’m glad to have you by me, Mr. Winslow. 
You may be of great help.” 

Burr and Joyce stood by also, saying little, 



124 


The Fourteenth Key 


but watching the proceedings with deep interest. 

"It’s pretty awful,” Burr said to Gilray, "but 
since it’s a complete stranger, we can take an 
impersonal interest. And we must know all 
there is to be known, in case we have any 
opportunity to help Uncle Mark.” 

Joyce nodded agreement to this, and the two 
young men looked on, silently. 

Carefully Fuller examined the girl’s clothing 
and accessories. 

On the floor near her lay a gaudy handbag 
of red leather, with large, colored stones set in its 
clasps. 

From this Fuller hoped for a clue, but the 
contents proved to be only the ordinary list. 

Two handkerchiefs, a pair of gloves, various 
toilet implements and make-up preparations, a 
pencil, a purse with about forty dollars in bills 
and change, a crumpled veil and the stub of a 
parlor car ticket,—that was all. No card or 
letter that might divulge her name, and no 
bunch of keys or anything to indicate her 
identity. 

"Keys and letters abstracted by the mur¬ 
derer,” said Fuller, sagely nodding his head. 
"Smart chap, too. No finger prints, no clue 
to the girl’s name, and I’m prepared to declare, 
no possible connection with any body in this 
house, for I’m sure such a clever criminal just 


A Tragedy 125 

left his victim here because there was no con¬ 
nection with the Winslow place.” 

“Good work,” the Medical Examiner said, 
approvingly. “You’re dead right, Fuller, and 
though we shall have to search your house, Mr. 
Winslow, and interview your servants, it will 
be largely a perfunctory examination for I, too, 
am sure there is no connection between this 
brutal murder and the Winslow house.” 

“Well, then,” said Mark, greatly relieved at 
these speeches, “suppose you do up me and my 
grandson first, and then we can be excused 
while you put the servants through.” 

“Very well,” agreed Doctor Tenney, “we’ll 
do it right here and now. Mr. Winslow, what do 
you know of this affair?” 

“Absolutely nothing. I was awakened this 
morning about seven, by my butler, who told me 
of his discovery.” 

“You heard no disturbance during the night? ” 

“ Not a sound, out of the ordinary. Only the 
noise of passing motors and the striking of my 
clocks.” 

“No sound of a struggle, or even of a confab on 
your own verandah?” 

“Not a hint of anything of the sort.” 

“And you never saw this young woman 
before?” 

“Never, to my knowledge.” 


126 


The Fourteenth Key 


" You’ve no idea who she is? ” 

"Not the slightest.” 

" And you’ve no reason to suspect any of your 
servants of being mixed up in any intrigue or 
any love affair that might lead to this tragedy? ” 

* * Absolutely none. ’ 9 

14 Then I think I’ve nothing more to ask you 
now. I may wish a talk later. Mr. Gilray, did 
you hear anything during the night that you can 
connect with this matter?” 

" Nothing at all,” declared Joyce, positively. 

"You heard nobody approach the house, no 
voices on the porch, no struggle or scream? ” 

"No, nothing,” was the answer, "but I always 
sleep very soundly.” 

"You know of nothing that might make you 
think any of the house servants are implicated? ” 

“Nothing at all.” 

“And you heard of the tragedy,—how?” 

“The butler, Jenks, came and informed me, 
just after he had told my grandfather. I 
dressed quickly and hurried downstairs, to find 
Mr. Winslow already on the scene.” 

"That will do for you two gentlemen. It’s 
clear you know nothing about it at all. Now 
I’ll talk to the servants. But first, I’ll go over 
the body once more, and then I think we may 
have it taken away. There’ll have to be an 
autopsy, but the immediate cause of death is 


127 


A Tragedy 

clear. There’s no weapon about, but of course 
the criminal took that away with him. We may 
conclude the weapon was a long, wide and fairly 
thick knife blade-” 

“Like a carving knife?” asked Gilray, looking 
at the Examiner. 

“No,—more like a large Jack-knife, or a big 
pocket knife, such as sailors or woodsmen 
carry.” 

“I’ve never seen that sort,” Joyce said. 
“How do you know about it? ” 

“Because the incision shows the shape of the 
blade, and the line of the wound tells its story 
too. Now, I think, Fuller, any further exami¬ 
nation of the body can be made at the morgue, 
where we shall send it. 

“I know Mr. Winslow will be glad to be rid of 
the gruesome exhibit, and we can have it photo¬ 
graphed later, with a view to learning the iden¬ 
tity of the victim.” 

Burr Winslow shuddered at the casual way 
these men spoke of the dreadful details, and he 
was fascinated against his will at the sight of 
the men lifting the body for removal. 

Though they were careful, they showed little 
reverence for the dead, and Burr noticed that 
they were more interested in watching out for a 
possible clue than in their gentle handling of the 
limp body. 





128 


The Fourteenth Key 


Like the others he looked out for a clue, but 
none was apparent. 

They took away the victim, the undertaker’s 
wagon having arrived for the purpose, and the 
detective went to see the Winslow servants as 
the Medical Examiner rode away with the 
body. 

“Let’s go along, Joyce,” Burr said, for now 
that the chief figure in the tragedy had been 
removed, he felt the lure of the hunt. 

The two young men followed Fuller and lis¬ 
tened to his quizzing of the corps of Winslow 
servants. 

But no real information was gained. The 
women servants were more or less hysterical, 
the men were stolid and straightforward in then- 
denials of any knowledge of the matter. 

All gave good account of their whereabouts 
the night before. 

The doctors had agreed that the woman was 
killed at or about two o’clock in the morning, 
and all the servants swore to having been in 
their beds at that hour. 

Jenks, always the last one to go to bed, cor¬ 
roborated their statements, and declared that he 
himself went to his room at twelve o’clock, as the 
family had retired by that time, and the house 
was still. 

Put through a strong fire of questions, Jenks’ 


A Tragedy 


129 


answers were so straightforward and so convinc¬ 
ing, that Fuller was unable to suspect him of any 
knowledge of or implication in the deed. 

There remained only Mrs. Swift, who had 
been left to the last, and who had not as yet 
shown herself at all. 

She came when summoned, and her eyes were 
red with weeping. 

“Did you know the dead woman?” Fuller 
flung at her, without preamble. 

“No,” she said, weeping afresh into her 
handkerchief. 

“Then why are you so affected?” 

“As if it isn’t enough to affect a body, to have 
a poor young thing killed on our very doorstep! ” 

“Did you hear any unexplained noise in the 
night?” 

“That I did! My room is right above that 
porch,—in the third story-” 

“What could you hear from the third story?” 

Fuller did not believe in this witness. He 
had met hysterical women before, and he knew 
the type that loves notoriety and is willing to do 
or say anything to get into the limelight. He 
had known women to make up astonishing yarns 
merely to surprise and mystify the police, and 
experience made him believe Mrs. Swift was of 
that sort. 

He impatiently awaited her reply, for if she 



130 


The Fourteenth Key 


became diffuse he meant to cut her story short. 

"I heard voices," Mrs. Swift began, and the 
way she rolled her eyes about, looking for inter¬ 
ested auditors, confirmed Fuller's thoughts. 

But he listened patiently, and she went on. 

“Two voices,—a man's and a woman's." 

"Could you hear what they said?" Fuller 
hoped to trap her. 

"No,—except I could hear that they were 
angry. Apparently the man was threatening 
her, and when she refused to do what he 
asked-" 

"What did he ask?" Fuller shot out the 
question suddenly. 

"I couldn’t hear what he asked," Mrs. Swift 
looked aggrieved, "but I'm sure he threatened 
her——" 

"And then she still refused, and he stabbed her 
in his sudden rage? " 

"Yes," and Mrs. Swift nodded affirmatively. 

"Then what did the man do?" 

"Went away across the lawn-" 

"You saw him?" 

"I—I think I did-" 

‘ ‘Well, I think you didn’t. Mrs. Swift, you’ve 
not been out with us at the scene of the tragedy, 
—who told you all about it?" 

"Susan, one of the maids." 

"Exactly. And having heard all about the 






A Tragedy 


131 

three sets of footprints, the way the woman was 
killed, and the apparent possibilities, you have 
reconstructed the crime along the most obvious 
lines and you are playing to the grand stand! 
Don’t deny it,—I know that is so. Now, stick 
to the truth,—on your oath,—how much of what 
you’ve described did you really see? ” 

The Winslow housekeeper sulked. Joyce Gil- 
ray looked at her in surprise. He didn’t like 
Mrs. Swift, especially of late, but he didn’t 
understand her. 

After a moment’s hesitation, she said, angrily, 
“None of it.” 



CHAPTER VIII 

TOWN GOSSIP 

“I thought so,” and the detective laughed. 
"I’ve heard witnesses of your stamp before, 
Mrs. Swift. You drew on your imagination 
for the sake of creating a bit of excitement. 
Nothing more now, from you, but I may want 
to see you again later. Jenks, was everything 
properly locked this morning,—just as you left 
it last night?” 

"Everything, sir,” said the butler, positively. 
"Not a door or window unfastened, and not a 
thing out of place.” 

"I cannot feel,” said Fuller, thoughtfully, 
"that the crime is in any way connected with the 
inmates of this house,—yet there is always the 
possibility that somebody from the house came 
out and went in again, without disturbing any¬ 
thing. Therefore, though it is merely a formal¬ 
ity, I feel it necessary to search the house.” 

No objection was made by any one, and 
several men under Fuller’s direction, searched 


132 







Town Gossip 


133 


all the rooms of the Winslow mansion, from 
those of the master himself, to those of the lowest 
servants. 

They reported absolutely nothing suspicious or 
incriminating in any room, and Fuller drew a 
breath of relief, for he had no wish to consider 
Mark Winslow or his household in any way 
concerned in the crime. 

“They were both strangers to the town,” 
he declared, “the victim and her murderer. 
Doubtless they were going through in a motor 
car, and he chose this place as quiet and well 
back from the road, for the scene of his dastardly 
attack on his companion. Mrs. Swift’s story 
of seeing and hearing a man and a woman may 
or may not be true. But in either case it is of 
no evidential value. It was a dark night, she 
couldn’t have seen them clearly, and she didn’t 
recognize them. Myself, I doubt if we ever 
solve the mystery. The murderer is of course, 
miles away by this time, and we have no clue of 
any sort by which to trace him.” 

“But you will make some effort, won’t you?” 
asked Burr Winslow, surprised at the detective’s 
indifferent manner. 

“Of course, the story will be in the papers, and 
photographs of the woman. If any friends 
I recognize her, they will make it known. Yes, 
we’ll advertise it thoroughly, but as to active 


134 


The Fourteenth Key 


effort on our part, you must see for yourself, 
there’s small opportunity for that. We can’t 
seek a man of whose appearance we know 
nothing-” 

“It needn’t have been a man-” suggested 

Gilray. 

Fuller stared at him. “That’s true,” he said, 
“it could have been another woman,—but it 
seems improbable. And there are a man’s foot¬ 
prints on the grass.” 

“If you can call them footprints,” Joyce 
smiled. 11 They are merely dragging depressions, 
formless and of no definite size.” 

“They may seem so to you,” and Fuller took 
on a superior air, “but to us who are accustomed 
to valuing such prints, it is easy to read their 
story. I am positive the larger impressions 
in the grass were made by a man’s feet. That 
he walked in across the lawn with the woman by 
.his side and that he later walked out again alone. 
To you laymen, the prints may seem confused 
and indistinct, but to us, they are legible enough 
to make those conclusions positive.” 

“Are there tracks of a motor car?” Joyce 
asked. 

“That we can’t say,” Fuller returned, “there 
are, of course, plenty of tracks along the road, 
but as the car,—-if the pair were in a car,—* 
didn’t drive in, we can’t judge anything from 




Town Gossip 


135 


the tire prints. And, too, there may have been 
others in the party. Another man or more, may 
have waited outside in the car, while the two 
came in. That is unlikely, however, for a 
murderer,—and this is clearly, a premeditated 
murder,—does not, as a rule, have others with 
him. No, the whole case is clear enough to me; 
as I see it, the man wanted to put the woman 
out of his way. He took her for a midnight 
drive,—or, possibly walk,—and somehow lured 
her into the seclusion of Mr. Winslow's porch, 
and stabbed her. The blow was swift and sure, 
and she doubtless died instantaneously and with¬ 
out a sound. Now, if a fortunate chance throws 
in our way any information from neighboring 
towns of a suspicious car or motorist we may 
have something to work on; but I fear such a 
clever, cool-headed villain as this one appears to 
be, will get himself safely away from the vicinity 
of his crime.” 

“ Strange there was no hint of her indentity 
among her personal effects,” Burr Winslow said, 
thoughtfully. 

"That was part of the clever villain’s fore¬ 
sight.” Fuller declared. "He doubtless took 
from her purse any letters, cards or keys that 
might disclose her address, and she was not of 
the type that has embroidered initials on her 
clothing.” 


136 


The Fourteenth Key 


“No clue in the way of tailor’s labels, or 
that?” asked Gilray. 

“None that we have found as yet. Her 
clothes are of the cheap, ready-made variety,—* 
flashy sport clothes, and cheap undergarments. 
No, so far, there’s not a personal clue of any 
sort.” 

“What about the Pullman ticket stub?” Burr 
said suddenly. 

“No good,” said Fuller. “It’s two months 
old, and on a distant railroad. It was stuffed in 
a side pocket of her bag, and worn and torn 
as if it had been there unnoticed for a long 
time. Well, I’ll be going on now, and if any¬ 
thing new turns up I’ll let you know at once. 
In the meantime, try to forget it all. It is a 
most unfortunate occurrence, but not one, I 
hope, that will cause you any further incon¬ 
venience or annoyance.” 

The detective collected his men and went 
away, satisfied that he could do nothing further 
in the matter, and not caring much. To him the 
case had few points of interest. A sordid murder 
of and by low class, ordinary people. He only 
regretted that the aristocratic Mark Winslow 
had to be dragged into it at all. 

“She wasn’t a bad looking girl,” said Burr to 
Gilray, after the police had gone. 

“Rather pretty, in a cheap way,” Joyce agreed. 


Town Gossip 


i37 


“That crinkly reddish hair always accompanies 
a clear, fair skin. But she was about the limit 
for loud, tawdry apparel.’* 

“Yes, that big-check sport suit and those 
gewgaw beads round her neck looked like Long- 
acre Square at its worst. Poor thing—probably 
up from New York on a joy ride,—that turned 
out to be anything but joyful. I doubt if they 
ever know a bit more about her than they do 
this minute.” 

“I doubt it too,” agreed Joyce, and then Burr 
went off home and Gilray went up to his own 
rooms. 

In a few moments, Mrs. Swift came, knocking 
at his door. 

He admitted her, and, deliberately closing the 
door behind herself, she calmly took a chair and 
faced Joyce with an air of bravado. 

“I’ve come to talk to you,” she said. 

“So I gathered,” he returned, pleasantly. 
“What about?” 

“About the murder of that poor girl.” 

“Yes?” 

“Yes. You see, I saw you and recognized 
you-” 

“When and where?” he asked, curiously, as 
she paused. 

“Last night,—walking across the lawn-” 

‘ ‘ Me! Walking across the lawn last night— ’ ’ 




138 


The Fourteenth Key 


he stared at her with a bewildered expression 
but with a dawning fire in his eyes. 

“Yes,—about two o’clock, the hour the girl 
was killed.” 

“Let’s get this thing straight,” Joyce’s tone 
was icy, “you saw me, Mrs. Swift?” 

She trembled a little under his gaze, and picked 
nervously at her handkerchief. 

“Yes, Mr. Joyce,—I’m sure it was you—but 
if you will make it worth my while, nobody 
need ever know-” 

“Stop right there, Mrs. Swift,” Joyce rose. 

He took her firmly by the arm, and as she 
stood up, he led her from the room and down 
the broad staircase. 

He spoke no word, but his grip on her arm 
made it impossible for her to do other than walk 
by his side. 

He took her straight to Mark Winslow’s 
library, and throwing open the door, led her 
inside. 

“Grandfather,” he said, “I wish you, please, 
to listen to what Mrs. Swift has to say. It 
savors of blackmail,—but you can judge of that. 
Now Mrs. Swift, repeat what you said to me 
upstairs.” 

“I—I—didn’t mean it—I—” the woman was 
sobbing now. 

“That won’t do,” said Joyce, inexorably. 



Town Gossip 139 

“ Repeat to my grandfather what you said to 
me.” 

Mark Winslow, interested now, looked sternly 
at his housekeeper and waited. 

The compelling gaze of Gilray had its effect, 
and Mrs. Swift tried to control her voice; “I 
only said—I thought I saw—” 

“You did not say that,” Joyce thundered at 
her. “What did you say?” 

“Then,—I said, I saw somebody that I 
thought-” 

“Stop that quibbling,” Joyce took a step 
toward her. “You said you saw—whom ?’ 9 

“You,” she whispered, cowed by his severity. 

“Where?” 

“Crossing the lawn——” 

“When?” Joyce shot out the words like 
bullets. 

“Last—night-” 

“That’s it, Grandfather, Mrs. Swift declares 
she saw me cross our lawn about two o’clock 
last night,—but, if I’ll make it worth her while, 
she won’t tell any one.” 

Mark Winslow turned to Gilray. 

“Where were you last night at two o’clock?” 

“In bed and asleep.” The clear young eyes 
met the older ones with a frank straightforward 
gaze. 

“Are you aware, Mrs. Swift,” Winslow turned 





140 


The Fourteenth Key 


to his housekeeper,—“that blackmail is a crime, 
and punishable as such?” 

“But I—thought I saw him—I did see 

him-” the wretched woman burst into 

hysterical tears. 

“You neither saw him nor thought you saw 
him,” Winslow declared, in low, grave tones. 
“Mr. Joyce was in bed and asleep. You have 
made up this story, hoping that he might pay 
you money, in order to avert suspicion from 
himself. He is in no danger of suspicion, but 
you are in serious danger of arrest and imprison¬ 
ment.” 

“Oh, Mr. Winslow, forgive me—I didn’t 
mean any harm-’ ’ 

* 1 Nonsense! Harm is just what you did mean. 
But don’t ask my forgiveness. It is my grand¬ 
son to whom you must apologize. If he chooses 
to forgive you, that is his affair. If he refuses 
to forgive you, and wants you prosecuted, I will 
make that my affair. What do you say, 
Joyce?” 

“Oh, no, Granfer,” Gilray looked pained, “I 
don’t want to prosecute Mrs. Swift. I do 
demand an apology, and assurance that it shall 
not happen again. That will entirely satisfy me.” 

“But it won’t satisfy me,” declared Winslow. 
“Mrs. Swift, you will first apologize to my 
grandson.” 




Town Gossip 141 

“I do,” said the woman, “fully and deeply. 
Please forgive me, Mr. Joyce,-” 

“You will retract your statements,” said 
Joyce, looking at her pointedly. 

“I do. I did not see you,-” 

“Nor any one you thought was myself?” 

“No, sir. If I saw any one,—it must have 
been a stranger.” 

“Did you see any one, Mrs. Swift?” Winslow 
put in. 

“I’m not sure, sir. It was a very dark night, 
and I thought I saw a person, but it might have 
been the shadows of the waving branches.” 

“What were you doing up at that time of 
night?” Winslow asked, curiously. 

“I’m a very poor sleeper, Mr. Winslow, and I 
often get up and sit by my window hours at a 
time.” 

- “Then you state that you did not see me,” 
Joyce went on, “and that you pretended you 
did, in order to get hush money from me? ” 

Though strongly disinclined to reply, the 
compelling eyes made her respond and a scarce 
breathed “yes,” was the answer. 

“You hear, Grandfather,” and Joyce said no 
more. 

“Yes,” Winslow said. “And you need not 
apologize further, Mrs. Swift, for my grandson 
is not to be bothered with your worthless regrets. 




142 


The Fourteenth Key 


You will, of course, leave my employ at once. I 
will give you extra payment instead of longer 
notice, but please go away without seeing me 
again. I bid you good morning.” 

“Good morning, sir,” and the distressed 
woman hurried from the room. 

“It’s too bad, Joyce, that you should be 
bothered with such a disgraceful scene, and you 
did just right to bring her at once to me. I have 
felt for some time that she was not a woman I 
wanted any longer around the house. She has 
been here many years, but she has outgrown her 
usefulness and has become arrogant and over¬ 
bearing. I can’t tell you, my boy, how I 
appreciate your frankness and loyalty in all out 
dealings with one another. I love and trust 
you fully, and after another month or so of 
leisure for you, I want to take you on as my 
confidential secretary, so that you will be fa¬ 
miliar with all my business concerns and all my 
private affairs as well.” 

“Whenever you say the word, Granfer,” and 
Joyce smiled at him. “I’m having a jolly good 
time, and I’m glad of a few weeks longer of idle¬ 
ness, and then I want to buckle down to real 
business. And, I say, Granfer, I’d like a room 
or so of my own in New York. As winter comes 
on, there’ll be lots doing there socially, and I 
don’t fancy trailing out here late at night.” 


Town Gossip 


i 43 


“All right, Joyce, I understand. You pick 
lout a nice little suite in some good bachelor 
hotel, and tell me about it. I fancy it can be 
arranged. Now about that horrible affair of 
last night, let’s try to forget it. Don’t mention 
it to me, unless it should become absolutely 
necessary. If the police turn up here again, you 
see them, and get rid of them. Will you, 
Joyce,—will you do that for me?” 

“You bet I will, Granfer. I’ll settle Fuller, 
if he comes again. But I doubt if he will. 
They’re through with us.” 

“ I hope so, I’m sure. Good Lord, here comes 
Molly!” 

And sure enough, the next moment, Molly 
Winslow walked in unannounced. 

“You get out, Joyce,” she ordered, after 
greetings were exchanged, “I want to see my 
uncle alone.” 

At a nod from Winslow, Gilray left the room, 
and Molly broke forth at once. 

“What’s all this about a murder committed 
over here?” she exclaimed. 

‘ ‘ Molly, ’ ’ said Winslow, “I’ve just asked Joyce 
not to refer to that unpleasant matter in my 
presence. I beg the same of you. I don’t want 
to hear about it, think about it, or talk about it. 
Will you be good enough to change the sub¬ 
ject?” 



144 


The Fourteenth Key 


“That I will not. Why don’t you want to 
discuss it?” 

“Because it is too distressing. Have you no 
feelings, no nerves, that you choose to talk on 
such gruesome subjects unnecessarily?” 

“And you want it all hushed up?” 

“I certainly do.” 

“Without any effort to find the mur¬ 
derer? ” 

“Without any such effort on my part.” 

“Why, Mark Winslow! Then you make your¬ 
self an accessory after the fact——” 

Winslow laughed aloud. “Don’t be silly, 
Molly! You don’t know what you’re talking 
about.” 

“Yes, I do! It’s compounding a felony—or 
something like that. Anyway, Mark, if you’re 
so keen to hush up the whole affair, you make me 
think you’re implicated-” 

“Hold on there, Molly,” he laughed shortly; 
“we’ve had one blackmailing case in here this 
morning, I don’t want another!” 

“What do you mean?” 

Winslow told her of Mrs. Swift’s attack upon 
Joyce, and to his surprise Molly seemed deeply 
interested. 

“So she thinks so too,” she exclaimed. “You 
may as well know, Mark, the whole town is 
talking about you and Joyce.” 



Town Gossip 145 

“About me and Joyce? In connection with 
this murder?” 

“Yes; oh, it’s only gossip, but they do say 
that it may be that you or Joyce or both of you 
know more about it than you have told.” 

“H’m, Molly, just who is saying this?” 

A little scared by the gleam of anger in his eye, 
Molly Winslow hesitated a moment then went 
on: 

“Well, I heard it from Mrs. Plum-” 

“I’ll warrant you did! Mrs. Plum, a busy¬ 
body, a town gossip! Well, then, what does 
Mrs. Plum say?” 

“Why, that’s all she says,—that you may 
know more than you told-” 

“Why should I know more than I tell? What 
does old mother Plum mean by that? ” 

“She isn’t so old,” Molly tried to laugh the 
matter off. 

“I don’t care how old she is, you answer my 
question. Why should I know more than I 
tell?” 

“I don’t know!” snapped Molly. “I didn’t 
say you did! What do I care if you know all 
about it-” 

“Hush that sort of talk, Molly,” Winslow was 
grave now. “What you have said may be a 
serious matter, or it may be mere nonsense. But 
I must know which. Is Mrs. Plum making 








146 


The Fourteenth Key 


trouble for me purposely or is she merely 
babbling idly?” 

“ Oh, that I guess,” Molly made haste to reply. 
“Mere idle chatter. After a shock like that 
murder the town is bound to be full of gossip. 
And what more natural than to mention your 
name—especially,” Molly looked at him 
shrewdly, “especially when you are so anxious 
to hush the matter up without further 
investigation.” 

“Who says I want to hush it up? I don’t! 
Well, maybe I did,—but since you’ve come and 
made these remarks, these insinuations and 
implications, I’ve changed my mind. I’m on 
the warpath now. I’ll show them whether I’m 
to be quoted as 'wanting to hush the matter 
up’!” 

He went to the door and stepped out into the 
hall. 

“ Joyce!” he called in a tone that might have 
reached the roof. 

“Hullo,” came the response, and Gilray came 
down stairs two steps at a time. “What’s to 
pay?” 

“The devil!” replied Winslow. “Your pre¬ 
cious cousin Molly here, says we are suspected of 
this murder business-” 

“Oh, Mark, I didn’t say any such thing!” 
Molly protested. 



147 


Town Gossip 

‘"Whew!” exclaimed Gilray; “The women are 
all after us this morning! Well, Granfer, what 
did you tell Cousin Molly? ” 

“I haven't told her anything. I scorn to 
answer her innuendoes. But I mean to take 
steps-” 

“Go ahead, Granfer, take the steps. What 
are they? I’ll take them with you.” 

“Of course you will, boy. We’ll show ’em 
that the Winslow men are not to be gossipped 
about,—not to be accused of implication in 
murder-” 

“Oh, come now, Granfer, it isn’t as bad as 
that, is it?” 

“That’s what it amounts to,” declared the old 
man, ignoring Molly’s frantic denials. “So, 
we’ll fight fire with fire. That fool Swift woman 
we could shut up and dismiss, but the townsfolk 
have begun to chatter, and that means drastic 
measures. Good Lord, to think because a 
murder is committed on a man’s verandah, to 
think he must himself be the murderer! But 
it’s all because those dunderheaded policemen 
don’t know which way to look,—haven’t a bit of 
talent for detective work in their whole force. 
Can’t think of anything better to say than, 
“Crime on Mark Winslow’s verandah. There¬ 
fore, Mark Winslow is the criminal.” 

“Or his grandson,” put in Joyce, smiling. 




148 


The Fourteenth Key 


“Yes,—or his grandson! Well, grandson, 
we’ll fix ’em. We’ll find the real murderer, 
and make the confounded arms of the law eat 
their own words! ” 

“How are you going about it?” asked Molly, 
with real interest. Though always at odds with 
her Uncle Mark, she really admired him greatly 
and always enjoyed seeing him stirred up over 
something. 

There was really not half so much talk as she 
had pretended; she had merely heard the 
gossipy Mrs. Plum give voice to a few faint 
wonderings. 

These she had exaggerated solely because she 
saw how it infuriated Winslow. She was a little 
scared at the fire she had kindled, but comforted 
herself by thinking she had said nothing for 
which she could be really blamed. 

“I’ll tell you exactly how I’m going about 
it,” Winslow assured her. “It has always been 
my custom when mixed up in matters that I 
didn’t thoroughly understand to employ the 
services, if available, of somebody who did 
understand them. So, in this instance, I shall 
endeavor to get the assistance of the best private 
detective I can find. And I think I know the 
very man.” 

“A detective, Granfer?” exclaimed Joyce. 
“Why do the work of the police for them?” 


149 


Town Gossip 

“ Because they won't do it for themselves,— 
at least, they won’t do it properly. Do you 
suppose if I said to that pack of blunderbusses, 
‘Find the murderer, so I needn’t be suspected,’ 
that they’d find him? Indeed they would not! 
So, I shall have him found myself.” 

“ But, Granfer, you’re not suspected—really! ” 

“Of course you’re not,” added Molly. 

“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” said 
Mark, sententiously. “And, beside, Joyce, I’m 
not sure but it’s right for me to take up this 
matter. The crime was committed on my prem¬ 
ises, and maybe it’s up to me to do what I 
can to solve its mystery. And, beside that—” 
his old eyes snapped, “I won’t say but what 
I’ll be a bit glad to crow over the half-baked 
idiots who looked over my premises and went 
away saying they could never learn the truth 
about the tragedy. There’s an admission for 
you! A couple of hours research and ready 
to admit defeat. I’ll show them. Are you with 
me, Joyce?” 

“To the bitter end, Granfer. Tell me what to 
do first, and—it’s as good as done.” 

“That’s the talk! There’s loyalty for 


“Don’t you want Burr to help, too?” asked 
Molly, jealously. 

“Of course I do. Joyce and I want all the 



I5« 


The Fourteenth Key 


help we can get from our own people,—and the 
big detective will do the rest. Ever hear of 
him, Joyce? Lorimer Lane?” 

“ Never, but I’m for him, on your recom¬ 
mendation. When do we start in?” 

“I’ll write him now,” and Winslow turned 
to his desk. “Get out, you two.” 

They got out. 


CHAPTER IX 


AT A BOARDING-HOUSE 

The widow Plum took only men boarders. 
This, she openly admitted, was because she 
wished to secure a good husband for her daugh¬ 
ter, Poppy. Her mother had pursued the same 
laudable plan and had successfully married off 
four daughters. 

To be sure, the four husbands had turned out 
uniformly bad, but, as Mrs. Plum incontrovert- 
ibly argued, that might have happened in a less 
carefully planned matrimonial campaign. 

And so, the Plum boarding-house, justly famed 
for its superior cuisine and pleasant appoint¬ 
ments, became easily the most desirable home 
for unattached men in Willowvale. 

Mrs. Plum, though no longer in the first flush 
of youth, was by no means old, and her tastes and 
inclinations all ran to modem improvements 
and new-fangled notions. 

Her Dorf car was of the latest model, and her 
phonograph was equipped with all the newest 
jazzes and song hits. 

Moreover, her precious Poppy was garbed in 


152 


The Fourteenth Key 


the most up to date creations and had every new 
style in bead necklaces as fast as they appeared 
in the department stores. 

Mrs. Plum, though she surreptitiously took 
a well advertised Obesity Annihilator, still 
weighed a lot more than the statistical tables 
approved of. But she was a jolly, bright-eyed, 
snappy little woman, who devoted herself to her 
boarders' comfort, with a wary eye ever on the 
watch for the eventual son-in-law. 

The boarders knew of this, in a general way, 
but they were either careful to make no com¬ 
promising advances or they frankly competed 
for the position. 

Poppy, herself, a bobbed-haired, flashing-eyed 
chit, scorned them all, so far, and with unerring 
appraisal, sized up each newcomer. 

It was all a matter of fact proposition; when 
the right man came, Poppy would marry him if 
he wanted her to. What could be clearer or 
more sensible? So the two Plums waited, and 
though now and then, a boarder of riper years 
made overtures to the widow, she declared right 
out she would never marry again, and indeed 
why should she? 

“Every woman ought to be married once," 
she often said; 4 ‘but why get trapped twice?" 

And so, she gave preference to the younger 
men for her boarders, and Poppy had at least 


At a Boarding-House 153 

plenty of room for observation of the genus 
homo. 

Also, pretty Poppy was a favorite with the 
boys of the neighborhood, yet there were grades 
of society above her level, and it was these she 
coveted. 

Her mother argued that these superior men 
would sooner or later come to board at the Plum 
Cottage, and then the game was as good as won. 

So they waited in placid content, and hoped 
from day to day for the Fairy Prince. 

To an applicant who arrived one lovely after¬ 
noon in mid September, Mrs. Plum was fain to 
say nay. 

For the man was elderly and almost decrepit 
in appearance, though his manner was brisk and 
cordial. 

“Oh, now do take me in, Mrs. Plum,” he 
wheedled. “I’m told there’s no such cooking 
in Willowvale as you provide. And I’ll only be 
here now and again,—just now and again.” 

The man was decently though not modishly 
dressed, and his face was decorated with a full 
beard,—an all-round beard, like the Brothers 
Smith wore on their Famous Cough Drop 
cartons. 

His large, shell-rimmed glasses were slightly 
amber-tinted, and his black soft felt hat was set 
carefully on his thick iron gray hair. 


154 


The Fourteenth Key 


“What do you mean by now and again?” 
demanded the landlady, her face softening as the 
caller took out a well filled pocket book, ostensi¬ 
bly to extract a card, but,—as she well knew,— 
to serve as an additional argument in his favor. 

“Why, I mean that I’ll be here a day or two, 
and then off again for several days. Then, pop 
back for a bit,—and then away again. I am 
a geologist, here is my card,” and Professor 
Curran handed over a card which definitely 
showed the honorary letters that he had acquired 
to trail after his name. 

“A geologist?” she said, a little blankly. 

“Yes, I go out in the woods about here and 
knock off bits of stone and rock, and bring them 
back and classify them and all that sort of thing, 
—I can’t describe it all in a moment, but I’ll 
warrant you’ll be interested when I show you 
some of my specimens and explain my work to 
you. Come, now, madam, take me in. I’ll 
take the room, do you see, permanently, but 
I’ll be in it only a few days at a time, now and 
then. Thus, you’ll get full pay, and less than 
half time work. What say?” 

Mrs. Plum considered. This was no chance 
for Poppy, of course, but the arrangement 
proposed was a tempting one. 

“Well, Professor Curran,” she said, at length, 
“I ain’t one to stand in my own light. What 


At a Boarding-House 155 

you ask is as good for me as it is for you. I can 
only give you a small room, but it's clean and 
comfortable. You see, of course, I can’t tie up 
my best rooms to a now and again boarder.” 

“All right, ma’am, and I’m satisfied with a 
small room,—but I don’t see just why you can’t 
tie up a large one-” 

“No, you don’t see it, and you needn’t try. 
But the fact remains, and it’s the little room, or 
none.” 

“The little room, by all means. May I go 
there at once? I’ve no luggage with me this 
time, save an over-night bag, but I’d like to 
see the room, and if it’s O. K. take it from 
to-day.” 

The room proved to be all the Professor re¬ 
quired, and in less than a half-hour from his 
arrival, he was established as a regular Plum 
boarder. 

He had brought a parcel of books beside his 
bag, and he proceeded to give the room quite a 
homey aspect by arranging his books on the table 
and placing his toilet appurtenances about. 

He nodded his head in satisfaction and Mrs. 
Plum nodded hers. 

For that room was not appropriate to any 
potential son-in-law, and she was very glad to 
have it permanently rented on such agreeable 
terms. 



156 


The Fourteenth Key 


The dining room had small tables around the 
walls, which looked like planets thrown off from 
the central sun, the long extension table, at which 
Mrs. Plum presided, with Poppy at the other end. 

Needless to say the most desirable boarders 
were near Miss Poppy. 

As a matter of course, the newcomer was 
relegated to one of the small tables. Nor did 
he object to this, though he cast what seemed 
to Mrs. Plum a longing glance at Poppy’s 
companions. 

Although two weeks had elapsed since the 
murder at the Winslow house and although the 
sensation it had caused had died down, owing 
to the failure of the police to find the murderer, 
yet it was still more or less a subject of discussion 
and the two other people at the small table 
where Professor Curran sat, argued about it with 
interest. 

“I have heard of it,” the Professor said, look¬ 
ing at them mildly, “but I don’t know the 
latest news about it.” 

“There isn’t any,” volunteered one of the 
men, a pale-faced youth of nondescript appear¬ 
ance. “The woman appeared from nowhere, 
some unknown person killed her,—that was the 
verdict,—and then the murderer went back to 
the nowhere they came from. That seems to be 
the gist of the story.” 


At a Boarding-House 157 

“Not very intriguing,” the Professor observed 
and went on with his chicken and waffles, for 
which particular food combination the Plum 
Cottage was famous. 

“ No, there were no clues, no evidence, nothing 
a detective could lay a hand on.” 

“Nobody suspected?” asked Curran, glancing 
up from his final waffle. 

“Not definitely. I did hear a rumor that 
somebody in the house was concerned in the 
matter, but it was quickly hushed up!” 

“Hushed up is a suspicious phrase in itself,” 
the Professor remarked. 

“Oh, it didn’t go as far as suspicion.” 

“I know something about that,” put in the 
other man at the table. “I am a friend of Burr 
Winslow’s, and he told me that old man Win¬ 
slow had been so mad about that suspicion, or 
hint of a suspicion, that he wrote for Lorimer 
Lane, the detective to come and look into the 
matter.” 

“That’s interesting,” Curran said; “did Lane 
come?” 

“There was no reply to the letter, Burr told 
me. They think Lane must be abroad, or off on 
some case, where he can’t be reached; and, any¬ 
way, Burr said, the matter has so faded away 
and everybody has lost interest, that old Mr. 
Winslow has about decided to let the thing 


15B The Fourteenth Key 

drop. Of course, it’s absurd to suspect him 


“Well,” Curran looked up quizzically, “old 
men have been known to be mixed up with 
flashy appearing young women,—and I read 
that this dead woman was a gay, sporty sort.” 

“She was, but Mark Winslow is above re¬ 
proach. Oh, yes, I know what you are suggest¬ 
ing, but there’s nothing of that sort in Winslow’s 
life. The whole town will tell you that.” 

“The whole town isn’t always infallible,” 
retorted the Professor, and then, with a word of 
excuse, he rose from the table and went up to 
his room. 

“Funny old cove,” said one of his table mates, 
speaking across to his landlady. “Where did 
you dig him up, Mrs. Plum?” 

“He’s all right,” and Mrs. Plum defended her 
new boarder. “He’s a wise scholar, and worth 
a dozen of you young whipper-snappers, any 
day!” 

“Oh, he’s all right,” was the hasty response, for 
a rebuke from Mrs. Plum was not to be desired. 
“On further acquaintance, I’m sure he’ll prove 
delightful.” 

The young man who had quoted Burr Winslow 
had told the truth. 

Mark Winslow had received no reply to his 



At a Boarding-House 159 

letter to the celebrated detective, and though 
he had declared he would follow it up, and try 
to learn where Lane was, he had not done so, 
and the days had gone by, each one helping to 
efface the memories of the tragedy, and each one 
making Mark Winslow less and less desirous of 
stirring up the distasteful matter. 

Moreover, he had learned that Molly Winslow 
had greatly exaggerated the public sentiment 
regarding his own connection with the crime, 
and he began to think it would be foolish on his 
part to give such rumors apparent credence by 
taking any steps to refute them. 

So the time went by, and with Winslow’s 
usual avoidance of unpleasant subjects he never 
spoke of the mystery and no one mentioned 
it to him. 

Also, Winslow was greatly interested in his 
present occupation of installing Gilray as his 
private and confidential secretary. 

Not too much work was put on the young 
shoulders,—there were plenty of assistants and 
stenographers and all that. And Burr was 
retained to do his full share of the routine duties, 
but it was Joyce who was put in touch with the 
most important matters, the most critical situ¬ 
ations and the most valuable properties. 

Nor did the young man find it irksome. He 
fully met Mark Winslow’s expectations and 


160 The Fourteenth Key 

hopes, and his quick intellect and clever brair 
delighted the soul of the older man. 

Burr Winslow took his dethronement man¬ 
fully. He said little, but cheerfully accepted 
such tasks as were given him and performed 
them well. 

Never forgetful of the fact that if Gilray had 
not appeared on the scene all Mark Winslow’s 
business would be in his hands, as well as all 
prospects of inheritance and succession, still 
Burr bore Gilray no actual grudge. 

He was not envious, though he fully realized 
what he had lost. 

But one thing bothered Burr. 

He liked Gilray,—no one could help liking the 
light-hearted, gay-spirited chap, but there were 
times and occasions when Burr had some doubts 
of Joyce. 

Not of his honesty, or his integrity,—but, 
vague, indefinable doubts of his personality, his 
identity. 

There was no chance of fraud or imposture, 
Burr recognized that fact,—and yet,—Joyce 
didn’t seem like a real Winslow. 

But when Burr sifted the matter down to that, 
and found that was all the result he could obtain 
from his intuitions and imaginations, he sighed 
and admitted that it was not inevitable that 
Joyce should be a Winslow. He was, doubtless, 


At a Boarding-House 161 

all Gilray. Often he had said that he was like 
his father in appearance and nature. Often he 
had regretfully acknowledged he was not a 
Winslow,—and even confessed he was not to the 
manner bom. 

And yet, Gilray was a general favorite. 

In the clubs, to which Burr took him,—in the 
social circles,—among the neighbors in the little 
community,—everywhere, in fact, Joyce Gilray 
was accepted and liked quite on his own ac¬ 
count, aside from his relation to Mark Winslow. 

And Burr conceded all this, he saw the popu¬ 
larity Joyce was attaining, he realized that he 
was making good on every count, and he won¬ 
dered if it were not some evil spirit of jealousy 
in his own heart that made him feel that sense 
of irritability, of dislike, now and then, at some 
action or some attitude of his cousin’s. 

Almost he decided it was. He told himself 
that he was envious of Gilray’s prospects as 
well as of his present position. 

For Joyce’s life was a round of luxury and 
pleasure. 

The hours he spent with Mark Winslow in the 
library were no hardship, for it was merely 
gaining instruction in managing the great for¬ 
tune that would one day be his. And the rest 
of the time Joyce was on pleasure bent. His 
rooms in New York were of >the best and most 



162 


The Fourteenth Key 


comfortable, and he stayed there as often and as 
long as he liked. His cars,—he had three now, 
were of the finest and most expensive. His 
wardrobe was all that could be desired, and with 
a preeminent social position and innumerable 
friends, Joyce Gilray’s lot was truly enviable,—- 
especially by one who had confidently expected 
to enjoy it himself. 

And, too, Mark Winslow’s love and admir¬ 
ation for Joyce knew no bounds. 

It was his greatest pleasure to load the young 
man with favors and gifts. All he required in 
return was the affection and companionship 
which Joyce gave him without stint. If he 
went to the city for a few days, he returned 
to give Mark a chatty and entertaining account 
of his doings. He spent hours in the old man’s 
company, and never did Mark Winslow feel 
neglected or lonely for lack of Joyce’s society. 
The two were fast friends and had many tastes in 
common. 

One of these was old books. Though not a 
great collector, Winslow had many fine and rare 
volumes, and in these Joyce was interested. 
Together they pored over them, and when Joyce 
offered to make a catalogue of them, Mark Win¬ 
slow was highly pleased. 

The books were taken up to Joyce’s sitting 
room,—a few at a time,—^and the work was 


At a Boarding-House 163 

carefully and painstakingly done. At a fairly 
rapid rate, too, for Joyce was quick of action 
as well as accurate, and now, as September 
waned, he had the matter well in hand and 
nearly half finished. 

All of this kindly devotion Burr noted, and 
still something rankled in his breast. 

With a sudden decision that was characteristic 
of him, he concluded to go straight to Joyce and 
have it out. 

Go, he did, and on being told that Gilray was 
in his rooms, he went upstairs without announce¬ 
ment. 

Tapping at the closed door of the sitting room, 
he heard Joyce’s somewhat impatient “Come in!” 
and he entered. 

“Oh, it’s you,—hello, Burr,” and Joyce 
sprang up and placed a chair. 4 4 What’s doing ? ’ ’ 

“I see you’re busy,” and Burr glanced 
apologetically at the piles of books, the scattered 
catalogue cards and the filing cabinets. 

“Yes, I’m putting in an afternoon on the 
catalogue. It’s no cinch of a job, and I usually 
leave orders that I’m not to be disturbed when 
I’m at it. But I’m glad you pushed up. Any¬ 
thing doing?” 

“No,—that is, I came to see you on a specia. 
errand—and now, I’m here, I’m sorry I 


came. 



164 


The Fourteenth Key 


“ There's a remedy,” and Joyce glanced 
quizzically at the door. 

He had been deeply absorbed in his work, 
which necessitated a lot of tedious but interest¬ 
ing research, and he begrudged the time, if Burr 
had no errand of importance. 

“I know,— ” Burr’s face lengthened, and his 
eyes became a little hard. “Look here, old 
chap, I’m going to say something unpleasant.’’ 

“Go to it, then,—best get it over quickly.” 

'‘Very well, then—in a nutshell, are you really 
Joyce Gilray?” 

The other gave a good-natured laugh. 

“In a nutshell, Burr, I am. Why,—are you 
sighing for your lost glories? Honestly, old 
fellow, I don’t blame you a bit for feeling the 
jolt. And that’s the reason I don’t resent 
your—er—somewhat impulsive speech, for I 
know if I were in your place I wouldn’t speak 
to you at all!” 

“I’ve been thinking this thing over, and I’d 
scorn to spy on you so, I come right to you, and 
you know, Joyce,” Burr went on, with a dogged 
air of persistence, “you haven’t really proved 
your claims-” 

“I say, Burr, don’t go too far! Not proved 
my claims? What about my mother’s papers 
and letters and pictures?—and the amethyst 
cross?—and well, my grandfather’s unquestion- 


At a Boarding-House 165 

ing acceptance of me ought to count for some¬ 
thing.” 

“Yes,—but-” 

“Look here, Burr, one more word of that 
sort, and I’ll throw you out of that door! And 
yet,—you’re a first class chap,” Gilray paused, 
and stared at the other, “and—hang it all, I like 
you too well to take the offense that I might 
take. But, I accept your challenge. For I look 
on it as a challenge. I will go West, as soon as I 
can manage it,—stay,—I’ll take Grandfather 
with me! That’s the ticket! We’ll go out to 
Pasadena and Los Angeles and Santa Barbara,— 
all the places I lived as a child, and I’ll get what 
the Good Book calls 'a cloud of witnesses’ to 
prove my identity. I’ll find the minister who 
baptized me,—if anybody did, and I’ll trace all 
the people I can who knew me as I passed along 
the years,—and surely there will be some of 
them important or influential enough now, to 
make their statements believed. There, Burr, 
what do you say to that plan? Or, if you have 
any other and better way of going about this 
thing,—make it known, and I’ll consider it. As 
you know, Grandfather would go to the ends of 
the earth with me, if I asked him to.” 

“Yes, he is completely under your 
thumb-■” 

“Don’t use such an expression, Burr. It 



The Fourteenth Key 


166 

sounds like undue influence. Do you see any 
signs of that in my relations with Granfer?’ , 

Gilray spoke quietly, but a glitter showed in 
his eyes, and his manner betokened his patience 
was nearly exhausted. 

“Not exactly that,—but you have certainly 
gained his entire confidence very rapidly. Why, 
you have charge of all his affairs. You even 
open his private mail, and often answer his 
letters for him.” 

“All at his direction. You are really arraign¬ 
ing him, not me, Burr. But enough of this. 
Come with me, let us go down to the library and 
have this matter out in Grandfather’s presence. 
Tell me before him of what you suspect me,—of 
what you accuse me. If you consider me an 
impostor or a fraud, you can have no objection to 
telling him so.” Gilray rose,—he was very 
angry now, but exceedingly quiet and com¬ 
posed. 

“No,” said Burr, “I don’t want to do that. 
Not, as you doubtless think, because I am a 
coward, but because I don’t want to do or say 
anything to pain the old man. And I know how 
he loves you, and what faith he has in you. 
Moreover, this is between us,—-you’ve no right 
to shift it to Uncle Mark’s shoulders.” 

“Oh, if you put it that way—” and Gilray sat 
down again. “Well then, Burr, the burden of 


At a Boarding-House 167 

proof rests with you. If you really think I am 
not Joyce Gilray,” again that little amused 
laugh, “all you have to do is to prove your opin¬ 
ion a true one. If I can help in any way, let me 
know. If you conclude it might be well to put 
the matter before Grandfather, do so—and if,” 
his manner softened, “if, Burr, you change your 
mind, and decide I’m all right, after all, don’t 
think for a minute, I’ll remember this against 
you. I realize perfectly how you came to have 
these thoughts. How Granfer’s overwhelming 
kindness and indulgence in my case makes you 
remember how you thought all these conditions 
were to be your own. It must be galling,— 
almost unbearable, I admit,—and I am truly 
sorry for you-” 

“Don’t be,—I don’t want your pity or 
sympathy.” 

And without another word, Burr strode from 
the room. 

Joyce gave a deep, thoughtful sigh, and then 
went back to his interrupted work. 

It was two or three days later, about four 
in the afternoon, when the Winslow doorbell 
sounded. 

Being Thursday, all the servants except 
Jenks had an afternoon off. 

That functionary answered the bell, with a 
demeanor that spoke of enforced condescension. 



The Fourteenth Key 


168 

The caller was a scholarly looking man who 
asked to see Mr. Winslow. 

" Your name, please/’ asked the imperturbable 
butler. 

"Professor Curran,” was the quiet reply. 
"Your master does not know me personally, but 
he knows of me, and has expressed a desire to 
meet me.” 

Jenks knew this to be the truth, and his 
manner changed a degree, as he said, "Walk in, 
sir, and I’ll tell Mr. Winslow you are here.” 

In the great hall the Professor waited, and 
immediately came a summons to the library, 
where Mark Winslow rose to greet him. 

Jenks retired, closing the door, and Mark 
Winslow affably invited his visitor to be 
seated. 

It was not half an hour later, when Jenks, 
again summoned by the door bell went through 
the hall. This time it was the postman, and 
a few moments later, with a handful of letters, 
the butler approached the library door. It was 
still closed, and Jenks listened, uncertain whether 
to intrude with the mail. 

Hearing no voices, he concluded the caller had 
gone, and that Mr. Winslow had let him out 
himself, as he sometimes did with his friends. 

There was no response to Jenks’ knock, and 


At a Boarding-House 169 

he repeated it. Hearing nothing then, either, he 
opened the door to place the letters on his 
master’s desk. 

He saw Winslow leaning back in his desk 
chair, in an unnatural, slumped position. 

With an exclamation of horror, Jenks dropped 
the letters and sprang toward the still figure in 
the chair. 

Mark Winslow was bleeding to death from a 
stab wound in his heart. Or that was what 
Jenks surmised from the unconscious man’s 
attitude and the slowly flowing blood that had 
partially congealed round the gash in the bosom 
of the soft shirt he wore. 

Jenks gave a loud scream, not from fear or 
terror, but for help. He knew all the servants 
were out, there was nobody to call on, except 
Joyce, who, he knew was up in his own apart¬ 
ments. So Jenks hoped to make him hear, 
while he himself ministered to the wounded man. 

Various thoughts rushed through Jenks’ brain. 
Should he leave the apparently dying man, while 
he called a doctor? Should he lift him and try 
to staunch the blood himself? Or could he get 
Mr. Joyce to help? The last seemed most 
hopeful, and he screamed loudly, “Mr. Joyce,— 
Mr. Joyce!’ 

The sound aroused the last remnants of fading 
consciousness in the dying man. He opened his 


170 The Fourteenth Key 

eyes, as Jenks tenderly supported his head, and 
whispered, thickly, ‘ “No, not Joyce —not 
Joyce -” 

At first, Jenks thought he didn’t want to see 
his grandson, and then a thought struck him. 

“Who did it, Mr. Winslow?” he asked, 
eagerly. “Who hurt you?” 

Mark Winslow looked at him with a rational 
look which faded as quickly as it came. “Not 
Joyce,” he reiterated, “not my grandson Joyce.” 
And then, with one final, desperate effort, he 
murmured, “Tell Burr—not Joyce,—tell Burr 

so-” and then, his head fell forward on his 

breast and his spirit fled, just as Joyce, with a 
horror-stricken face appeared at the library door. 




CHAPTER X 


THE MYSTERY 

“What is it?” Joyce cried, “Jenks what has 
happened? What ails my grandfather? ” 

“He's dead, Mr. Joyce,” the man spoke me¬ 
chanically. He was still holding Mark Winslow’s 
head against his own breast, still endeavoring to 
see or feel a flutter of life. But in vain. The 
weapon that had been used had done its swift 
and deadly work, and Mark Winslow had 
breathed his last. 

“But,” Joyce’s eyes were big with horror, 
“he’s—he’s been stabbed, Jenks-” 

“Yes, sir,” still that half-dazed look and tone¬ 
less speech. “Yes, sir,—but he said you didn’t 
do it, sir——” 

“/ didn’t do it!” Joyce now looked as blank 
as the butler himself. 

“That’s what he said,” Jenks repeated, stolidly. 
“Oh, Mr. Joyce, can’t you see I’m all in! I’m 
that put about I don’t know what I’m do- 
mg- 




172 


The Fourteenth Key 


“I don’t Blame you, Jenks,” Joyce strove to 
get a grip on his own nerves, and his eyes roved 
quickly about the room. “ Who has been here? ” 
“That old gentleman,—Professor Curran, he 


“But he couldn’t have been the murderer!” 
“He must have been, Mr. Joyce,” Jenks said, 

earnestly, “for I let him in-” 

“How long ago?” 

“About half an hour-” 

“Time enough for him to have gone away and 

somebody else arrived-” 

“But nobody did—leastwise, nobody rang 

the bell, until the post-man came-” 

“Hush up, Jenks,—let me think-” 

Knowing the responsibility devolved on him, 
Gilray thought deeply for a moment. His eyes 
darted about the room, now and then resting on 
the face of Mark Winslow. 

Jenks had gently laid the white head back 
against the high-framed chair, and the hand¬ 
some features were composed and natural look¬ 
ing. 

The butler stood at attention, awaiting orders 
from one whom he now looked on as his new 
master. 

“What was he killed with?” Gilray exclaimed 
suddenly. 

“That’s what I’m thinking, Mr. Joyce,” 








The Mystery 


i 73 


Jenks returned. '‘Whoever did it, made oft and 
took the knife with him.” 

“Knife? Why not dagger?” 

“Look, sir; there’s a cut just like the cut in 
that poor girl who was killed here,—same shape, 
see? ” Jenks bared the breast of the dead man, 
but Joyce put up a warning hand. 

“Don’t do that! Don’t touch him! You 
mustn’t,—now, I’ll call Doctor Murray and the 
police-” 

“The police again—Good Lord!” 

Without further words, Gilray went to the 
telephone and called the numbers he wanted. 

Before the officials he had sent for arrived, he 
called Burr Winslow. 

“Come right over, Burr,” the other said; “a 
terrible thing has happened—I don’t want to 
say more over the wire,—but hurry over, won’t 
you?” 

Burr reached the house just as Dr. Murray 
put in an appearance, and Jenks admitted the 
two men. 

The library door stood open, and the butler 
pointed that way. 

“What—what does it mean? ” cried the doctor 
as he sprang to the dead man’s side. “Why, 
this cut is exactly like that on the unknown girl 
we found here! Who did this?” 

“We—we don’t know, sir—” Jenks answered, 



174 


The Fourteenth Key 


for Gilray and Burr Winslow were staring at 
each other in a sort of wordless inquiry. 

And then the police came, and in a moment 
Dr. Tenney, the County Medical Examiner, and 
Dr. Murray were conducting an examination. 

A police lieutenant and the Detective, Fuller, 
were looking carefully about the room, but re¬ 
frained from speech. 

At last Dr. Tenney reported. 

“ Death from a stab wound,” he said, suc¬ 
cinctly, “ weapon probably a large knife,— 
singularly like the one used to kill that strange 
woman we found on your porch here. Driven 
straight at his heart, and hit its aim. Dead 
about half to three quarters of an hour, I should 
say, but maybe a little more or less. Hard to 
tell exactly.” 

“Killed instantly?” Dr. Murray said inter¬ 
rogatively. 

“Practically,” Tenney agreed. “But maybe 
not, a man of Winslow’s vitality might have 
lived, even consciously, for a few moments-” 

“He did, sir,” Jenks broke in. “He spoke 
after I found him-” 

“He did!” cried Fuller, waking from his 
reverie. “Tell of your finding him! What did 
he say?” 

Jenks looked important. He was not at all 
averse to being in the limelight, and he felt sure 




175 


The Mystery 

that as in the case of that other tragedy, so now, 
he knew more than any one about the earliest 
facts. 

“He had a caller, Mr. Winslow had,” the 
butler began, and Fuller snapped out, “Who 
was it?” 

“Professor Curran, sir.” 

“Who’s he?” 

“I don’t know, sir. He was an old gentleman 
who came to see Mr. Winslow. I let him in-” 

“What time was this?” 

“About four o’clock. I’m always on the door 
Thursdays, as all the others have the afternoon 
off. I let the gentleman in and showed him into 
the library here, and Mr. Winslow spoke to him 
like he was glad to see him. He asked him to sit 
down, and I went out,—and that’s all I know 
about that part of it.” 

“Go on,” said Tenney, briefly, and Jenks con¬ 
tinued. 

“Then, a bit later, the postman came, and I 
took the mail, and I came to the door of this 
room, sir, and I tapped, but there was no an¬ 
swer. So I opened the door to lay the letters on 
Mr. Winslow’s desk,—and I saw him ” 

Jenks stopped talking, with the air of a man 
who has no more to say. 

“You hadn’t let the old gentleman out?” 

“No, sir.” 




176 


The Fourteenth Key 


“You didn’t hear Mr. Winslow let him out?” 

“No, sir,—but I was in the kitchen, and that’s 
some way off. Maybe he did let him out,—or 
maybe the man let himself out——” 

“Don’t surmise.” Dr. Tenney frowned at 
him. “When you saw Mr. Winslow, what did 
you do?” 

“I rushed to him,” Jenks spoke a little re¬ 
sentfully now, “and when I saw he was dead— 
or, I thought he was dead, I screamed as loud as 
I could for help-” 

“But the servants were all out.” 

“I know, sir, but I didn’t stop to think, I just 
shouted. Then I called loudly for Mr. Joyce, 
and he came as quick as he could.” 

“And Mr. Winslow spoke?” 

“Yes, sir,” this was to be Jenk’s great mo¬ 
ment, and he made ready for it. 

He drew himself up importantly, and said, 
“Yes, sir, he spoke his dying words—to me.” 

“He said, ‘Not Joyce,—not my grandson 
Joyce!’ and I saw at once he wanted to shield 
Mr. Joyce, in case he was suspected-” 

“Cut out your own opinions or surmises,” the 
detective thundered at him, “repeat only the 
spoken words.” 

“All right, sir,” and Jenks turned sulky. 
“Then, I said, ‘Who did this, Mr. Winslow? 
Who stabbed you?’ and he looked at me quite 





177 


The Mystery 

conscious, sir, and he says, ‘Not Joyce,—tell 
Burr not Joyce!’ and with those words, sir, he 
died,—died in these very arms!” 

Jenks held out his arms as if they were hence¬ 
forth sacred to a memory, and indeed, quite out¬ 
side his love of a dramatic scene the butler was 
thrilled with the sad horror of the tragedy. 

Then Burr Winslow spoke, “He said, ‘Tell 
Burr not Joyce! ’ What could he have meant by 
that?” 

“He must have thought I would be suspected 
of this murder,” Gilray said, speaking calmly, 
but with a stern look on his face. ‘ ‘ And it would 
seem, Burr, that he must have thought you 
would suspect me. At least, I can’t put any 
other construction on the words. Can you, Dr. 
Tenney?” 

“We haven’t come to that part of the in¬ 
quiry yet,” was the rather short reply. “We 
want to assemble all the facts before we begin 
to put a construction on them. That’s all Mr. 
Winslow said, then, Jenks?” 

“Yes, sir, every word, sir. Then he sort of 
sighed and stopped breathing.” 

“You’ve seen men die before, Jenks?” 

“Oh, yes, sir, I was orderly in a hospital for a 
year—I was——” 

“Then you know Mr. Winslow was both con¬ 
scious and rational when he said those words?” 





i 7 8 


The Fourteenth Key 


“Yes, sir; and the effort exhausted his last 
drop of strength and he went right out, sir.” 

Jenks’ solemn face attested to the truth of his 
description, and then Fuller took up the in¬ 
quiry. 

* 1 Where were you at this time, Mr. Gilray?” 
he asked. 

“Upstairs in my sitting-room.” 

“How were you engaged?” 

“I was working on some cataloguing I am 
doing for my grandfather.” 

“You’d been up there all the afternoon?” 

“Yes, ever since luncheon. I often put in an 
afternoon on the work, which is now nearing 
completion.” 

“You heard the doorbell ring,—or the arrival 
of Professor Curran?” 

“Yes, and I also saw the visitor approach the 
house. I chanced to glance out of my front 
window as this elderly man came along the side¬ 
walk and turned in here. I never saw him be¬ 
fore, and I looked at him with a slight curiosity. 
Then I heard the bell ring and heard Jenks admit 
him. I thought no more of the incident, and I 
heard no other sounds from downstairs until I 
heard the postman’s ring. To that also I paid 
no special heed and a moment or so later I heard 
Jenks scream. Then I rushed downstairs and 
found my grandfather dead and Jenks holding 


179 


The Mystery 

him in his arms. After I pulled myself together 
from the shock of the discovery I telephoned for 
Dr. Murray, for the police and for my cousin, 
Mr. Winslow. The rest you all know.” 

Gilray sat back in his chair, like a man ex¬ 
hausted after an ordeal. 

“There’s no one else in the house?” Fuller 
asked, turning to the butler. 

“No one at all, sir,” Jenks returned, knowing 
he meant servants. 

“Then we have all the history of the case that 
we can get,” Fuller said, “and unless some one 
came in here between the Professor’s exit and 
the postman’s call, we must conclude the old 
gentleman is the murderer.” 

“Had any one done that, I should have heard 
him,” Gilray said; “my room door was open and 
I heard all that went on downstairs. Though 
of course, being absorbed in my work, and not 
looking for anything unusual I paid no attention 
to the matter.” 

“Yet you saw the old gentleman arrive,” 
Fuller said. 

“Yes; I often glance out of the window and 
naturally I notice any one coming into this place. 
That’s why I think no one else came in, except 
the postman, and his visit being part of the 
day’s routine I gave it no thought.” 

“Yet some one came in, and murdered my 


i8o The Fourteenth Key 

uncle/’ Burr Winslow said, his face stormy. “I 
don’t for a minute believe it was that old pro¬ 
fessor! I know who he is,—and I’m sure he’s a 
harmless old thing.” 

“You know him!” and Gilray looked up in 
surprise. ‘ ‘ Who is he? ” 

“Yes, who is he?” echoed Fuller. “Your 
knowledge is most opportune, Mr. Winslow. 
Who is he?” 

“Professor Curran is a scholar and a geolo¬ 
gist,” Burr began. “He boards at Mrs. Plum’s 
boarding-house, over on the other side of town. 
I never met him personally, but I have a friend 
who lives there and he has told me of the queer 
old man and his eccentricities. I can’t imagine 
any reason why he should kill my uncle.” 

“Can you imagine any reason why anybody 
should kill him?” Fuller asked, eagerly. 

“I can imagine reasons,” Burr frowned; “but 
I can’t think you want imaginations, Mr. Fuller. 
Facts, I assume, is what you’re after. But what 
was the weapon and where is it?” 

Fuller looked at him scornfully. 

“Don’t think we’re neglecting our work, Mr. 
Winslow,” he said. “The weapon is not in evi¬ 
dence. The murderer took it away with him. 
You didn’t see it when you first discovered your 
master, did you, Jenks?” 

“No,—oh, no, sir.” 


The Mystery 


181 


‘‘You saw nothing of it when you came down¬ 
stairs, Mr. Gilray?” 

“No,” Joyce answered, “but I, like Mr. Burr 
Winslow, wondered that you seem to ignore the 
matter of the weapon. I always supposed that 
was a prominent question in any murder mys¬ 
tery.” 

“It is,” and Fuller assumed a look of superior¬ 
ity. “But we don’t see it here, so we conclude 
the criminal took it away with him. Why dis¬ 
cuss it?” 

“Or he may have hidden it in the room,” 
Gilray’s eyes traveled about the library, and his 
gaze rested on the various cabinets, bookcases 
and tables. 

“If he did, we’ll find it,” Fuller declared. 
“You see, the wound is precisely like the stab in 
the throat of the young woman who was found on 
your doorstep-” 

“Then the same man killed both victims!” 
Gilray cried out. “And that girl was some one 
my grandfather knew-” 

“Oh, don’t go so fast, Joyce,” Burr exclaimed. 
“You always wanted to believe Uncle Mark 
knew something about that girl—I know he 
didn’t.” 

“You don’t know it, Burr, however much you 
believe it. But, I say, Mr. Fuller, if you have 
any suspicions of that old Professor person, why 






The Fourteenth Key 


182 

don’t you get after him before he can get away. 
Like my cousin, I can’t see why he should kill 
anybody, but, after all, you’ve no one else to 
suspect definitely,—-have you?” 

“No,” said Fuller, “we haven’t. Well, Ten¬ 
ney, I think I’ll get on trail of this professor 
—will you give me the address of that board¬ 
ing-house, Mr. Winslow?—and you and Dr. Mur¬ 
ray look after matters here.” 

“I’ll go with you, if I may, Mr. Fuller,” Burr 
Winslow said; “I can be of no use here,—you 
don’t need me, do you, Joyce?” He turned to 
him as he spoke; “if I can do anything, of 
course-” 

“No, no, Burr, go ahead. Go with Mr. Ful¬ 
ler, and perhaps you two can learn something 
that will help. Lord knows I can’t see any 
light anywhere. Who would kill grandfather, 
and how can there be any connection between 
his death and that of the utter stranger who 
came here to die?” 

Burr Winslow went off with the detective and 
Gilray turned to Dr. Murray and the Examiner, 
who were still talking over details of Mark 
Winslow’s death. 

“Please advise me,” he said, speaking to both 
of them. “I was entirely in my grandfather’s 
confidence, and I know all about his estate and 
business matters,—but in the present circum- 



The Mystery 183 

stances I feel utterly at a loss. I am ready to be 
advised, and I want to do the right thing.” 

“I understand,” said Dr. Murray, kindly. 
“This is a hard situation for you to meet, Joyce. 
Your grandfather adored you, and you were all 
the world to him. But, for the dignity of the 
house, you must brace up and take the 
helm-” 

“That’s just what I mean,” Joyce said, grate¬ 
ful for this understanding. “Now, Dr. Tenney, 
will there be any painful scenes—I mean, in¬ 
quests and that sort of thing-” 

“Yes, Mr. Gilray, there will. Youmay as well 
meet that knowledge half way. A man like 
Mark Winslow cannot be put out of existence 
without the town and the state rising up to in¬ 
quire the why and wherefore. That unknown 
young woman was in different case. She, ap¬ 
parently, had no relatives or friends who cared 
what became of her. The police did all they 
could to find out more about her, but so far, 
little light has been shed on that mystery. 
Now, it may be that the two crimes are con¬ 
nected, but I scarcely think so. There is no 
link that I can see, but the shape of the wound. 
And there is more than one big, ugly knife in 
this world. Yes, Mr. Gilray, there will be a 
great hue and cry over this matter. You will 
be necessarily more or less dragged into it as a 




184 


The Fourteenth Key 


material witness,—indeed, you and your butler 
are the only such we have. You will have to 
tell your stories over and over again,—but, I 
take it, you’ll be willing to do so in the hope of 
finding your grandfather’s murderer.’’ 

“Yes, I shall,” and Gilray turned a determined 
face to the Examiner. “That’s the sort of help 
and advice I wanted. I am unversed in these 
things, and I hoped I could be unmolested— 
alone with my grief. For, as nobody seems to 
appreciate, I am bowled over by this sorrow. 
To me, the crime and its horror is less appalling 
than the fact that I have lost my dear friend and 
relative,—my only one,—and that so shortly 
after I found him. Don’t think me a womanish 
sort, sir, but I’d be glad to go to my room and 
stay there till I can adjust myself to my new 
affliction.” 

“Why, of course, Mr. Gilray-” 

“Oh, don’t misunderstand me. I don’t pro¬ 
pose to do it. I am ready, since you show me my 
duty, to take my place as head of the house, and 
to use every effort to bring to justice the man 
who is responsible for this outrageous crime.” 

“And you don’t think it could have been the 
old professor?” 

“I don’t say that. Of course it could have 
been he. I only meant that at first thought he 
seemed unlikely. Yet who can say? He may 



The Mystery 


185 


have been an old time enemy of my grandfather’s 
of whom I never heard. Those things are out¬ 
side my experience,—I mean things like deduc¬ 
tion and consideration of evidence and all that. 
Yet if you expect me to do detective work, I’m 
ready and willing to try.” 

'‘No, boy, no.” Dr. Murray spoke up. 
"You’ve enough on your heart and mind to go 
through with all the duties that will devolve on 
you as your grandfather’s successor and repre¬ 
sentative. You’re his sole heir, aren’t you, 
Joyce?” 

"Yes, Dr. Murray. Grandfather made no 
secret of his will or his intentions. He left be¬ 
quests to Burr and his mother, and to other 
relatives, but the bulk of his estate is now 
mine.” 

The lieutenant, who was still present, looked 
closely at Gilray’s face, but though a keen ob¬ 
server, he could see no sign of satisfaction or of 
contentment at the acquisition of this estate, 
but instead, a calm and business-like expression 
as he made the simple statement of the Winslow 
affairs. 

"And what do you suppose your grandfather 
meant by his dying words?” Lieutenant Porter 
asked, suddenly. 

"I suppose he meant just what he said,” 
Gilray looked surprised at the question. 


The Fourteenth Key 


186 

11 But why would he say that ? Why asseverate 
that it was not you, and that Mr. Burr Winslow 
should be told so?” 

Gilray paused a moment, then said: 

"I can only visualize it this way. My grand¬ 
father was stabbed by somebody, with intent to 
kill. That we know. Now, my grandfather had 
a very rapidly working mind. I have no doubt 
he knew that he was fatally stabbed, he knew 
that the murderer would be sought,—and may 
have known that he would probably get away, 
as he has,—and then, my grandfather feared 
that I might be suspected of his death. This is 
the only explanation I can think of for his speech. 
He wanted to declare with his dying breath that 
I, his beloved grandson, was innocent. Good 
Lord! Why should I want to kill him? A man 
who loved me devotedly, who gave me every¬ 
thing I wanted, who was my congenial compan¬ 
ion and friend as well as my loving grandfather! 
And yet,—and perhaps his mind was a little 
imbalanced by his approaching death,—he feared 
I might be accused and he forestalled it. Could 
devotion go further?” 

“No,” said Murray, “it was wonderful. Just 
like Mark Winslow! I’ve known him for years, 
and I say it's just like him.” 

“Why did he say, 'Tell Burr 1 ?” went on 
Porter. 


The Mystery 


187 


Joyce hesitated, then said, frankly; “I can’t 
tell you, unless he feared that possibly Burr 
might think I did it. There’s no one else in the 
house, you know. But I think Burr knows me 
better than to think it.” 

“I think so, too,” said Dr. Murray. 



CHAPTER XI 


WHERE IS THE PROFESSOR? 

As Fuller, accompanied by Burr Winslow, 
stepped down from the verandah steps they 
were accosted by a man who had been mowing 
the lawn. 

‘‘What's happened?" he whispered. “Mur¬ 
der?" 

“Yes," returned Fuller, tersely, “what have 
you seen?" 

“Who done it?" the man's white face was 
tense and eager. 

“We don’t know. Have you been here long?" 

“All the afternoon,—ever since one o'clock." 

“Tell me everybody you have seen go in or 
come out." 

“That’s easy—but I s’pose you mean out the 
front door-" 

“Out any door. Go on," impatiently. 

“Well, the servants went out the back gate,— 
all except Mrs. Jameson and she came out the 
side door and around out the front way." 

188 



Where is the Professor? 


189 


“Who is Mrs. Jameson?” 

“The housekeeper,” Burr put in. “She’s a 
new one in the place of Mrs. Swift.” 

“When did they go?” asked Fuller, watching 
the man closely. 

“Between two and three, I sh’d say. Then 
nobody came or went till ’long about four, when 
a rusty old guy came in.” 

“How do you know the time so nearly?” 

“I keep tab by the strikin’ of the church clock. 
I’m none too fond of shovin’ the lawn mower of 
a hot afternoon, and I’m glad to hear the hours 
passin’.” 

“Describe this old man.” 

“Well, he wasn’t so awful old,—leastwise he 
seemed spry enough, but he limped a little,— 
not ’sif he was lame, but more ’sif his boots 
hurt him.” 

“You were very observant,” remarked Fuller. 

“Well, that’s what I saw. And he had gray¬ 
ish whiskers and sorta longish gray hair—not 
very long but like it needed cuttin’.” 

“Go on.” 

“That’s all I remember specially ’bout his ap¬ 
pearance. He went up on the steps and rang 
the bell and Jenks let him in. That’s all I 
know.” 

The man’s clear blue eyes looked into the 
detective’s face with a candid gaze. 


190 The Fourteenth Key 

“Who are you? What’s your name?” Fuller 
said. 

“I’m Dickson,—Mr. Winslow here knows me. 
I keep these lawns in shape.’’ 

Dickson looked round with pride on the vel¬ 
vety grass, and neatly trimmed shrubbery. 

“Yes, I know him,’’ Burr said; “you come 
two or three times a week, don’t you, Dickson? ” 

“Yes, sir,—’cordin’s necessary. Please, won’t 
you tell me what’s happened inside?” 

He looked pathetically curious, and Fuller said: 

“Why, yes,—it’s no secret. Mr. Mark Wins¬ 
low is dead—killed by a stab wound-” 

“Then that old man done it,” Dickson cried. 
“And, by gum! he never come out again! 
Where is he?” 

1 ‘ He must have gone away by some rear door,” 
Fuller looked thoughtful. “You’re sure he 
didn’t come out this way? Were you here all 
the time? Did you see the postman come?” 

“Sure!” Dickson declared, answering all the 
questions at once. “I been right on this job all 
afternoon, I tell you. I seen the old man go in and 
I didn’t see him come out. Then, some later-” 

“How much later?” 

“I dunno ezackly,—I ain’t got a watch, 
mebbe ’bout twenty minutes or so,—the post¬ 
man came, and he rang the bell-” 

“Didn’t he whistle?” 





Where is the Professor? 191 

“No sir, he never whistles here,—Mr. Winslow 
don’t like him to. He always rings. Well, he 
rang, and Jenks, he come to the door and took 
the letters and the Postman went on. Of course, 
I saw all that. Then, the next thing I knew, 
Dr. Murray came, and the police people, and 
Mr. Burr Winslow, and—oh, my land,—it was 
time for me to quit work—but I never thought 
of that—oh, sir, did the old man kill Mr. Wins¬ 
low? Kill him?” 

“Mr. Winslow is dead,’’ Fuller said. “We 
don’t know who killed him. Where do you live, 
my man? You’ll probably be called on to repeat 
all this.” 

“Yes, sir,—to be sure, sir.” 

Dickson gave his address, and after a few 
more questions the others went on. 

“Strange thing about the old gentleman’s dis¬ 
appearance,” Burr began. 

“Strange, if he’s innocent,” Fuller said. 
“But if he’s the murderer, and it certainly looks 
like it, then, naturally he escaped by some back 
door or window.” 

* 1 Why would he ? When he came so openly ? ’ ’ 

“For various reasons. Perhaps he was in a 
nervous funk, and didn’t want to encounter the 
gardener again. Perhaps there were telltale 
stains on his clothing—perhaps he feared Jenks 
would appear in the hall——” 



192 


The Fourteenth Key 


“But how did he get out?” 

“I don’t know the house well enough to an¬ 
swer that. But there are several outside doors, 
I suppose.” 

“Yes, doors on all four sides.” 

“Then he probably left by the side door op¬ 
posite where the gardener was at work.” 

“But Dickson was on the front lawn,—he 
would have seen anybody——” 

“Well, the old man had to get out some way, 
didn’t he? He’s not there now. So, he must 
have left by somp exit,—window or door—which 
was outside the range of observance of either 
Jenks or Dickson. I felt it necessary to trail 
him to his home, rather than search the Winslow 
house. But the others will do that. They’ll find 
out how he made his getaway.” 

“You’re sure he was the murderer?” 

“All I can say, he’s our best bet so far. We 
ought to learn a lot here.” 

They had reached the boarding-house, and in 
a few moments were in the little parlor, talking 
with Mrs. Plum. 

“Professor Curran?” she said, as they asked 
for the man, “why, he’s out, I think. I’m sure I 
saw him go out an hour or more ago. But I dare 
say he’ll soon be back,—want to wait?” 

She eyed her visitors curiously, sensing a 
serious errand. 



Where is the Professor? 


193 


“I want a talk with you, Mrs. Plum,” and 
Fuller told her briefly who he was. “Tell me all 
you know of Professor Curran.” 

But, though she tried, Mrs. Plum couldn’t 
make a very long story. It seemed she knew 
little or nothing of her elderly boarder, save that 
he was a geologist, an occasional visitor and a 
quiet, well-behaved one. 

“Where’s his home?” Fuller asked. 

“In New York. He comes up here now and 
then to get specimens for his geology work.” 

Fuller looked thoughtful. He distrusted that 
geology work. His mind was full of theories that 
included an old-time enemy of Mark Winslow’s 
coming now and then to Willowvale, and when 
the time was ripe carrying out a plan that had 
resulted in that day’s tragedy. 

If this were true, then the “Professor ” had dis¬ 
appeared for good and all and was, doubtless, al¬ 
ready beyond their grasp. 

“Let me see his room, Mrs. Plum,” Fuller 
commanded, and trembling now with apprehen¬ 
sion, the landlady led the way and her two 
callers followed. 

The bedroom was small, plain and in good 
order. 

Fuller looked swiftly round it, then dove into 
the closet and hastily ran over the clothes hang¬ 
ing there. They were notinumerous; an old 



194 


The Fourteenth Key 


suit, which, Mrs. Plum explained, he wore when 
hunting specimens in the woods. An anti¬ 
quated dressing-gown, of flowered woollen stuff, 
and carpet slippers. A pair of old, stout boots, 
overshoes, a stout stick and an umbrella,—these 
were about all the wardrobe showed. 

Fuller turned to the table, which served also 
as desk and bookcase. 

The writing materials were few and cheap; 
the books were all works on geology and kindred 
subjects; and a small typewriter was the only 
modem or worthwhile object in view. 

A letter rack held a few opened letters, but 
Fuller found these to be mostly circulars or ad¬ 
vertisements of books or treatises on Geology. 

Clearly, Professor Curran was a devoted 
Geological student, or—wished to appear so. 

A few of Mrs. Plum’s receipted bills and some 
odds and ends of newspaper clippings com¬ 
pleted the toll of the table’s contents. 

Examination of the toilet articles and per¬ 
sonal appointments gave no further light of the 
man’s character. They were colorless, ordinary 
implements, plain but substantial, just such as 
might be expected of a bookish old man. 

“A Sherlock Holmes might find something of 
importance, but I don’t see a thing!” declared 
Fuller, looking discouraged. “Just a lot of 
clothes and things any old codger might have. 


Where is the Professor? 


i 95 


If he killed Mark Winslow there’s no evidence 
here to hint at it.” 

“Killed Mark Winslow! What are you talk¬ 
ing about? ” cried a hearty young voice from the 
hallway, and a wondering face looked in at the 
bedroom door. 

“Why, hello, Burr Winslow, what are you do¬ 
ing here? ” the same voice exclaimed. “And Mr. 
Fuller, the detective! What’s up, Mrs. Plum?” 

“Now who asked you in here, Mr. Robbins?” 
and the landlady looked annoyed. “I do wish, 
gentlemen, you’d lower your voices. It ain’t 
very nice for me to have these goings on in my 
house. I keep a quiet, genteel home for my 
boarders, and here’s detectives all over it-” 

“Come in, Robbins, and shut the door,” Burr 
Winslow said, quickly; “now, Mrs. Plum, you 
go out, if you like, but we want to ask Mr. Rob¬ 
bins a little about this man. What do you know 
of Professor Curran, Sam?” 

“Not much,—why?” Young Robbins stared 
curiously, and Mrs. Plum ignored the invitation 
to depart. 

“Well, what little, then? Tell it.” 

“I’ve only seen the old chap a few times. He 
sits at our table when he’s here, which isn’t often, 
is it, Mrs. Plum?” 

“No, not often,” replied the bewildered 
woman. 



196 The Fourteenth Key 

“ Go on, Sam,” Burr commanded. “What sort 
of man is he?” 

“Oh, an old bookworm—daft on rocks— 
geological specimens, you know. No interest in 
us young chaps, no interest in the lady boarders, 
or in anything but his digging up rocks. His 
table manners are good enough but he’s a little 
eccentric-” 

“ Just how?” asked Fuller. 

“Oh, he’ll jump up from the table as he swal¬ 
lows his last mouthful, and scoot out of the 
dining-room without so much as 'Excuse me’; 
nothing very rude or boorish, but more absent- 
minded or preoccupied, you know.” 

“Had you ever any reason to think he was 
other than he seemed?” the detective inquired. 

“Well, that’s funny,” Robbins returned. “I 
never did, until the last time he was here,—last 
week, it was. Somehow, then, I caught a gleam 
in his eye that made me think he might be 
younger than he seemed.” 

“Could he be a younger man, in disguise?” 
Fuller asked. “Are his whiskers and his ap¬ 
parent age false—*—” 

“Lord, no! That sagebrush all over his chin 
can’t be false! I never saw such a growth,—• 
not long, but thick, bushy—I guess he grew that 
alfalfa himself.” 

Fuller was disappointed. He had formed 




Where is the Professor? 


197 


suddenly a new theory. He had thought that 
possibly this old professor was the detective that 
Mark Winslow had brought from the city to look 
into the murder of the strange woman on his 
porch. It was a theory all Fuller’s own, it had 
sprung full armed from his own brain, and he 
hated to discard it. If it were true, then of 
course, the old man was not the murderer of 
Mark Winslow,—but Fuller was by no means 
sure that he was. It was all very mysterious. 

But the Professor must be tracked down, 
whoever he was. 

Robbins, who was an acquaintance of Burr > 
Winslow’s had become deeply interested. 
Quickly getting the facts from Burr, he be¬ 
gan to evolve theories. “Sure, the old guy 
killed him,” he declared. “It’s clear enough. 
Curran was an old-time enemy of Mr. Winslow’s, 
—he came here, posing as a geologist and all 
that,—and now, when he got ready, he went 
over there and pulled it off. You’ll never see 
Curran again.” 

Sam Robbins was the alert and alive type of 
Young American. He was self-reliant and self- 
confident, sure of his facts and positive of his 
opinions. A quick thinker and inclined to jump 
at conclusions, he sized up the situation at once 
to his own satisfaction and proclaimed the 
result. 


198 


The Fourteenth Key 


Robbins was strong and active, physically, 
with dark hair and clear dark eyes that snapped 
with decision. 

''Going to get busy, Mr. Fuller?” he in¬ 
quired, less impertinent than interested. “Go¬ 
ing to track down old Curran-—or try to? I’ll 
bet he’ll lead you a chase! Let me help, won’t 
you? Oh, come now, don’t be a piggy-wig!’’ 

The last appeal was brought forth by the un¬ 
assenting look on Fuller’s face. He was a little 
jealous of this young man’s quick manner and 
feared that he would discover clues where the 
detective failed or was dilatory. 

“Let me help, too! What is it, Sam?’’ and 
another element was added to the strangely 
assorted group, as Poppy Plum opened the door 
softly and came into the room. 

“I’ve been listening at the keyhole,’’ she de¬ 
clared shamelessly, “and I want to be in the 
ring.’’ 

“Now, look here,” Fuller began sternly, “I 
came over here to conduct an investigation,—I 
don’t want the whole crowd in it with me-” 

“Put ’em out, then,” said Miss Poppy, 
calmly. “I tell you, Mr. Detective Fuller, 
there’s nobody here that can help you but me 
and Sam. We are the people you want-” 

The girl was saucy, even insolent, but so 
vivaciously pretty, so overflowing with en- 




Where is the Professor? 


199 


thusiasm and so possessed of charm and magnet¬ 
ism that few had ever been able to resist her or 
to deny her requests. 

“Now, Miss Poppy,” Fuller began, but Poppy 
saw her chance. 

“Any way,” she said, “I can tell you things 
about old Curran that nobody else knows. You 
see I take care of his room-” 

“Poppy,” cried her mother, “you come along 
with me. Don’t pay any attention to her, Mr. 
Fuller, she doesn’t know what she’s talking 
about.” 

“Be quiet, Mrs. Plum,” and Fuller gave her a 
glance of stern reproof. “Now, Miss Poppy, 
just what do you mean? Tell anything you 
know that may throw the least light on the per¬ 
sonality of the Professor.” 

But Poppy’s whimsical mind had changed 
again. 

“I don’t know a thing!” she cried, “I was just 
trying to get a rise out of you! I don’t know a 
thing about that old curmudgeon, and I don’t 
want to. He’s as dead as the old fossils he digs 
up, and as useless!” 

And no urging on the part of the detective or 
Burr Winslow could make her admit that she 
had meant anything more than a joke by her 
assertion of knowledge. 

“Come on, then,” Fuller said, at last, “we’re 



200 


The Fourteenth Key 


getting nowhere by staying here any longer, and 
Lord knows there’s enough to be done. Of 
course, Tenney will look after matters at v the 
Winslow house, but I’ve got to scare up that old 
man, or get some news of him somehow. I sup¬ 
pose the Railroad Station is a good guess, but I 
doubt if he went away on a train—it’d be too 
easy to trace him, and you can take it from me, 
he’s a slick proposition.” 

“You bet he is!” Robbins exclaimed. “I’ll 
declaim on Friday afternoons that Friend Cur¬ 
ran is more than a match for any of us.” 

“How about his being a detective himself?” 
Fuller growled, more to see how it struck Rob¬ 
bins than because it voiced his own opinion. 

“That’s it!” Burr Winslow cried. “I always 
felt sure Uncle Mark didn’t mean to drop that 
matter of the murdered woman, and it would be 
just like him to get Lorimer Lane up here, incog., 
and let him investigate. Then you see, he went 
over to report to Uncle Mark——•” 

“Then he wasn’t the murderer,” Robbins said. 

“No, of course not. I don’t think he was any¬ 
way—maybe he saw the murderer come, and 
saw him go, and—went after him—that’s where 
he disappeared to!” 

“Ingenious, Mr. Winslow,” Fuller said, “but 
hardly enough evidence to warrant that con¬ 
clusion. In that case, how did the murderer 



Where is the Professor? 


201 


get into the Winslow house without Dickson’s 
seeing him?” 

"The same way he got out,” returned Burr, 
promptly. "And the way Curran got out,— 
if he was the detective. I tell you, Fuller, we 
can’t bother about how they got out, since we 
know they did get out-” 

"We don’t know anything,” Fuller said, sen- 
tentiously. "But our first line is to track down 
Curran and then, if he is Lorimer Lane, I’ve 
no reason to keep on with my own theories.” 

" If he’s Lorimer Lane, and if he wants to dis¬ 
appear, we won’t find him,” Burr said, positively 
and Sam Robbins added; 

"If he’s the murderer, some old enemy of Mr. 
Winslow’s, you won’t find him either.” 

"He’s the detective,” Poppy announced, 
solemnly, but would vouchsafe no amplification 
of her declaration. 

Mrs. Plum had already slipped away, and 
when the others found her they found her 
confabbing with Mrs. Swift, the former house¬ 
keeper at the Winslow home. Having been dis¬ 
missed from there, she had obtained a position as 
assistant to Mrs. Plum, who was very glad to 
make use of her services. 

But though the two women were talking as 
hard as they could, which is saying considerable, 
they had no enlightening hints for the detective. 



202 


The Fourteenth Key 


He put a few questions to Mrs. Swift, but she 
could tell him nothing of interest or impor¬ 
tance concerning the Winslow household. 

She was ready to denounce Joyce Gilray, as it 
was on his account that she had been discharged, 
but this Burr Winslow would not allow. 

He discounted her spiteful remarks by telling 
Fuller of her dismissal, whereupon the detective 
lost interest in her recital. 

They were about to depart when a violent 
peal came from the door-bell and in a few mo¬ 
ments Molly Winslow was among them. 

“Burr!” she cried, “I’ve hunted all over for 
you! What are you doing here?” 

“There, there, mother,” he said, “don’t go 
into hysterics. I’m trying to help run down 
Uncle Mark’s murderer. You’ve been there? ” 

“Yes, of course, I just came from there. The 
house is full of people,—all the neighbors are in 
there, condoling with Joyce and all that. What 
have you learned here?” she looked about curi¬ 
ously. 

4 ‘ Nothing definite. We’ve looked through the 
Professor’s effects-” 

11 Who is that professor? ’’ cried Molly. 4 ‘What 
was he doing at Mark Winslow’s? Why would 
he kill him?” 

“Mother,” said Burr, suddenly, “do you 
know anything in Uncle Mark’s past life that 



Where is the Professor? 


203 


would make anybody persecute him or hound 
him down?” 

“Goodness, no! what an idea! Do you mean 

Mark did something wrong-” 

“For any reason. I mean do you know of any 
shady episode, or any old quarrel——” 

“No, Burr, I don’t. For goodness’ sake 
don’t harry the poor man, now he’s dead. Mark 
Winslow was the soul of honor and all that sort 
of thing. He had a strange temper, he was un¬ 
forgiving—you know about his daughter’s elope¬ 
ment,—but there was never a reason for any 

one to come and kill him-” 

“You mean, no reason that you know of, Mrs. 
Winslow,” Fuller said, “there may have been 
affairs in his life of which you know nothing.” 

“Of course there may,” put in Mrs. Swift. 
“And there were. Many’s the time I’ve come 
upon him unexpectedly, in his library, when his 
desk was spread with papers and he was sitting 
there, his head buried in his hands, like he was 
agonized over something or other.” 

“Very interesting, Mrs. Swift,” Fuller said, 
“but not definite enough. You don’t know of 
any enemy he had, do you?” 

“No, I don’t,” she declared, though but for a 
warning glance from Burr, she would have re¬ 
ferred to the arrival of the grandson. 

“Well, I do,” said Molly Winslow, “I know 





204 


The Fourteenth Key 


of lots of enemies Mark Winslow had,—but not 
one who would come in and kill him. Business 
enemies, I mean,-” 

“Now, mother,” Burr said, “don’t trump up 
such things. Every business man has enemies 
in that sense, but Uncle Mark’s murderer was a 
desperate enemy, a man who planned deeply 
and diabolically. It is a mysterious crime and a 
terrible one. I think you women must keep out 
of it-” 

“I should say so!” Fuller chimed in, and then 
Poppy interrupted, with: 

“Yes, mother, you and Mrs. Swift and Mrs. 
Winslow don’t know what you’re talking about 
when you discuss these matters. Now, I do. 
Look here, Mr. Detective Fuller, don’t you think 
it pretty queer that the murderer, whoever he 
was, knew enough to choose Thursday after¬ 
noon for his visit,—when he knew all the ser¬ 
vants would be out of the house, except old 
Jenks?” 

Fuller glared at her. 

“I can’t see that that has any bearing on the 
case,” he returned, in an acid tone of voice, “and 
I advise you, Miss, to keep out of this matter 
yourself. Even less than older women do you 
know anything about these things.” 

“That’s all very well, Mr. Detective Fuller,” 
and the red lips drew themselves together in 




Where is the Professor? 


205 


impudent fashion. ‘‘But I do know a thing or 
two,—and you’ll be glad to come to me for in¬ 
formation, before you’re through!” 

“ Don’t pay any attention to her, Mr. Fuller,” 
cried the harassed Mrs. Plum, “she’s just talk¬ 
ing to show off. She doesn’t know anything 
about Professor Curran that I don’t know, and 
that’s just nothing at all beyond what I’ve told 
you.” 

“Look here, Fuller,” said Sam Robbins, “you 
leave Miss Poppy to me. If she knows anything 
that has a bearing on this case, I’ll let you 
know-” 

“Huh,—think you’re smart—” began Poppy, 
indignantly, but Robbins gave her a look and 
she quite suddenly ceased talking. 

And then, to Mrs. Plum’s great relief, her 
callers departed, Fuller to go back to Head¬ 
quarters, and Molly and Burr to the Winslow 
home. 

“You must not talk so much, mother,” Bun- 
said, as they walked along. “You’ll make 
trouble for me and yourself too, if you do.” 

“I’ll say what I choose,” Molly Winslow re¬ 
turned, “and you can’t stop me, either.” 





CHAPTER XII 


LORIMER LANE 

With the passing of Mark Winslow and the 
inheritance of the estate, a new dignity seemed 
to invest the manner and behavior of Joyce 
Gilray. 

He held long confabs with Harvey Brett, the 
new lawyer who had been employed in Barry’s 
place. 

Brett was somewhat of servile type, and know¬ 
ing that his predecessor had been discharged for 
undue inquisitiveness, he was careful to avoid 
any such fault. 

As a matter of fact Gilray was more familiar 
with the financial affairs of the Winslow estate 
than the lawyer was, and legal advice was all 
the young heir asked for or desired. 

The funeral services had been held with all 
the pomp and ceremony appropriate to the obse¬ 
quies of such an important citizen, and neighbors 
and friends had flocked round Joyce with offers 
of help and hospitality until the young man was 
fairly bewildered by their kindness. 

206 


Lorimer Lane 


207 


He accepted little of it, though most courteous 
and grateful in his refusals. He kept much to 
himself, deputing Mrs. Jameson to see many of 
the callers, and requesting Brett to look after 
business matters. 

But to the Detective, Fuller, or to any mem¬ 
bers of the police force, he was always at home 
and ready for an interview. 

4 ‘You see,” he said to Fuller, “until after the 
funeral we can’t—that is, I can’t do much. But 
when that is over, I want to take hold of this 
mystery of my grandfather’s death and solve it. 
Meantime, you do all you can in the way of 
investigation and report to me your findings.” 

The detectives did all they could and the day 
after the funeral Fuller came to report. 

“I’m up against it, Mr. Gilray,” he said; 
“I’m certain that Mr. Winslow was killed by 
that Professor Curran, but where he is or who he 
is, we can’t find out.” 

4 4 1 can understand your not finding out where 
he is, but what do you mean by not knowing 
who he is? Surely, a Professor of Geology must 
have a definite standing, a record of some sort, 
somewhere.” 

“You’d think so, of course,” Fuller sighed; 
44 but that’s just it. Apparently he hasn’t,—and 
so, we’re inclined to think that he wasn’t a 
professor at all.” 



208 


The Fourteenth Key 


“What was he?” 

“An enemy of Mr. Winslow’s,—an old-time 
acquaintance, say, who pretended to be a pro¬ 
fessor and came here with the purpose of killing 
Mr. Winslow.” 

“What about the theory that he may have 
been a detective in disguise?” 

“I don’t think that is the truth, Mr. Gilray, 
and I’ll tell you why. If he’d been a detective, 
in Mr. Winslow’s employ, working on the case 
of that murdered woman, he wouldn’t have 
come here that day—and then, disappeared! 
That’s the strange part of it all,—the man’s dis¬ 
appearance. Why, he came here, Jenks let him 
in, and he never was seen again by anybody. 
What became of him?” 

“He must have slipped out some side door—• 
or through some window-” 

“Why would he do that? But, that isn’t the 
point,—the point is he couldn't have done it. 
You see, Dickson was on the front lawn all the 
time. Now, Dickson isn’t a man who is so 
wrapped up in his work that he doesn’t notice 
what goes on about him. He’s rather of a curi¬ 
ous nature. He saw everybody that passed by. 
He’s mentioned several motor cars and pedes¬ 
trians, too, who went by. We’ve checked them 
up and found his story true. He saw the old 
professor come in the place and go up on the 



Lorimer Lane 


209 


front porch. He saw Jenks let him in, and he 
never saw him come out. Then he saw the post¬ 
man come and go, and right after that the ex¬ 
citement began. Now, what became of that 
professor?” 

“Now, look here, Fuller,” Joyce looked 
straight at him, “that man had to get away 
somehow. He didn’t remain in this house. We 
have to admit that. Therefore, he got away. 
There are several ways he could have-” 

“How, Mr. Gilray, just how?” 

“Well, there’s a side door on the other side of 
the house, toward the back, you know. That is 
quite outside the range of Dickson’s vision and 
from it a path goes directly back to the 
woods-” 

“Yes, sir, but that door was locked,—Jenks 
told me so. The man couldn’t have gone out 
that way-” 

“Jenks says that door was locked? ” Gilray’s 
face expressed surprise. 

“Yes sir, he says he’s sure of it. You don’t— 
you haven’t any suspicion of Jenks, have you, 
Mr. Gilray?” 

“I haven’t any suspicion of anybody, Fuller,” 
and Joyce Gilray looked weary and harassed, 
“except, of course, that Professor Curran. I 
daresay he was somebody my grandfather knew, 
—in fact, he must have been, for Jenks says he 





210 


The Fourteenth Key 


greeted him pleasantly when he arrived. Now, 
either Curran killed my grandfather or he 
didn’t. But if he didn’t, why did he sneak away 
secretly? That is the reason I suspect Curran. 
He did disappear, however he managed it, and it 
must have been because he was the criminal. I 
hold that he might have slipped out at the front 
door and front gate when Dickson was busy 
gazing at the motor cars he noticed so carefully. 
But if not, then Curran got away by some other 
means,—by a window or back door or somehow. 
He had to get away,—and he did get away. We 
must accept those facts. Now, it would be inter¬ 
esting to know how he made his exit, but to my 
mind that is of minor importance compared with 
the necessity of finding him. We must find 
Curran. If he is innocent and a good friend of 
my grandfather’s, then we want to know it, so 
we can search for some other suspect. And if he 
is the criminal, then we surely must get him.” 

“He’s the criminal all right,” Fuller declared. 
“Why, there’s nobody else to suspect in the 
slightest degree. You heard no other person 
come in-” 

“No, and I saw no one else come, until the 
postman came. And no one could have entered 
the house by any other door than the front door, 
since, as Jenks says, one side door was locked and 
the other one is right near where Dickson was at 



Lorimer Lane 


211 


work all the time. Well, Fuller, it must have 
been the Professor, so we must find him.” 

“Easy enough to say, Mr. Gilray, but what's 
to be done?” 

“Have you seen the Railroad Station people?” 

“Yes, sir. They all seem to know the man. 
He has arrived a few times on a train from New 
York. He has always gone directly to Mrs. 
Plum's, and several times they have seen him 
go back to New York. He usually carries a 
small suit case, or a medium sized bag. Once he 
had a man carry the bag for him and it was 
enormously heavy. The Professor laughed and 
said it was full of rocks.” 

“Yes, he is a geologist,—they say he collected 
specimens in the woods back of this place. 
That's why I have in my mind his fleeing to the 
woods to hide. But if he couldn't get out of the 
house—pshaw, Fuller, he did get out of the 
house,—so we seem to be at a deadlock. How 
are we going to find him?” 

“That's a question I can’t answer, sir. We've 
tried various colleges and Educational Bureaus 
of Registry,—all that sort of thing, and we can’t 
trace him any way at all.” 

“Maybe he'll show up of his own accord,” 
Gilray spoke musingly. “I’ve a queer notion, 
Fuller, about those last words of my grand¬ 
father. You’ve heard about them?” 



212 


The Fourteenth Key 


'‘Oh, yes, sir. It was like the old gentleman 
to protect your name in case of suspicion.” 

“Yes, but here’s my point. My grandfather 
never would have thought. of protecting my 
name, as you put it, unless he had reason to be¬ 
lieve I would be accused. Now, I think the 
Professor had threatened to implicate me in my 
grandfather’s death, and with that in his mind, 
the dying man tried to forestall it.” 

“Very likely, sir, very likely. That would 
mean that the murderer knew he could make a 
secret getaway, and he meant the crime should 
be fastened on you!” 

“Something of the sort,” Joyce spoke very 
gravely. “I can’t see it all clearly myself, but 
it must have been some threat or hint from the 
murderer that made it seem imperative to my 
grandfather to put in a word toward my de¬ 
fence.” 

“That makes it look more than ever like 
Curran’s guilt, and, as you say, sir, the thing is 
to find him, and then we’ll find out how he disap¬ 
peared so mysteriously.” 

The police left no stone unturned in their 
search for the missing Professor. They made 
Mrs. Plum’s life a burden by their repeated 
visits to Curran’s room, by their repeated quiz- 
zings of herself, her daughter and her boarders. 

To her distress, the boarders seemed to like 


Lorimer Lane 


213 


being quizzed, and as for Miss Poppy, she led the 
detectives and the reporters a dance by hinting 
at secret knowledge, which she did not possess, 
until at last, they began to distrust her evasive 
stories. 

The matter dragged along; the verdict being 
that of death at the hands of one Professor Cur¬ 
ran, whose apprehension was strongly advised. 

Burr Winslow talked it over with Joyce. 

“It’s all very strange,” Burr said, musingly. 
"Don’t you think, Joyce, that the fact of the 
stab wounds being so exactly alike, and no 
weapon found in either case, seems to link up 
the murder of that strange girl with the murder 
of Uncle Mark?” 

"It does seem so, Burr,” Joyce returned, 
thoughtfully, "but after we’ve said that, what 
have we proved? Only a strange coincidence, it 
seems to me. For, even supposing the same 
person committed the two murders that just 
implicates Curran in the girl’s murder——” 

"If Curran killed Uncle Mark—” Burr looked 
doubtful. 

"Yes, of course,—if he did. On the other 
hand, if the girl was killed by some man who 
brought her here,—as the police assume,—then 
he may or may not have been the man who 
killed grandfather. I can’t see, Burr, that the 
shape of the wound being the same, has any 



214 


The Fourteenth Key 


bearing on the case so far as we know now. It 
may have, of course, but I don't see it at 
present." 

‘ ‘ Nor do I. But it makes the case a very pecu¬ 
liar one,—one that I believe has far more to it 
than we can see on the surface. I say, Joyce," 
Burr spoke suddenly, “look me in the eye! 
Do you know anything more about this business 
than you have told?" 

Gilray met Burr's eyes with a straightfor¬ 
ward gaze that became stern and even menacing 
as he spoke. 

“First, I’ll answer your question,—no, I do 
not. Then, I’ll ask you one. Do you suspect 
me of having had a hand in my grandfather's 
death, or why do you seem to doubt my honor 
and honesty?" 

Burr looked at him and spoke slowly. 

“No, I don’t suspect you of killing my uncle, 
but I will tell you as I have told you before, I 
don’t quite understand you. You seem to me 
like a man with a secret,—a man with something 
to hide." 

Winslow said this without a tracebf diffidence, 
without a hint of embarrassment, speaking as 
casually as if he were mentioning the merest 
trifle. 

Gilray sighed. “I have, Burr, but you know 
all about it. Yet it bothers me a lot, that past 


Lorimer Lane 


215 


life of mine with the Movie people. Just think, 
seven years I lived with them. Seven years of 
Bohemian, sometimes questionable acquaint¬ 
ances and surroundings. Do you wonder it 
troubles me? When I meet pleasant, correct 
people, and then remember the scenes I’ve lived 
through, I do feel like a man with something to 
hide,—like a man with a secret. I’m glad you 
spoke of it, though, Burr. For it makes me 
realize that I show it. I don’t want to wear my 
past life on my sleeve. Tell me, how does it 
seem apparent?” 

“Oh, pshaw, Joyce, I didn’t mean that at all. 
Is that all you have on your conscience?” 

Gilray stared at him and his eyes grew stormy. 

“Are you hunting for trouble, Burr? Do you 
want to quarrel with me? Or fight? I’ll tell 
you right now, I won’t stand your innuendoes. 
If you’ve anything to say, come right out and 
say it! What do you think I have on my con¬ 
science? The killing of that girl and the murder 
of my grandfather?” 

“Oh, no, no! Lord, no!” and Burr looked 
shocked. “Good Heavens, Joyce, how can you 
say such things?” 

“Don’t try to turn the tables that way,” 
Joyce looked straight at the other, “tell me 
what you have been implying,—what you mean 
by your insinuations. Speak out, now!” 


216 


The Fourteenth Key 


The glitter in his eyes and the ring of com¬ 
mand in his voice stirred Burr to action and he 
said, 

“This is what I mean, then, I don’t believe 
you are really Joyce Gilray.” 

“Oh, that’s it, is it?” and the laugh that ac¬ 
companied the words was one of relief. “I’ve 
been looking for a repetition of that sort of thing 
from you. I’ll admit you’ve taken your deposi¬ 
tion like a man, you’ve been nice to me and ac¬ 
cepted your removal from power with dignity 
and proper resignation. But that was when 
grandfather was here and could stand up for me. 
Now, he isn’t here, you return to your plan of 
casting doubts on my personality, in hope, I 
suppose, of benefiting yourself thereby.” 

“I have always had doubts,” Burr said, 
gravely. 

“Then, all I can say is, keep your doubts to 
yourself,—or, prove me in the wrong. I have no 
responsibility in the matter. I came here with 
full proofs and credentials. With all my mother’s 
papers and belongings and with memories of 
her and of my father that were incontrovertible 
evidence of my good faith and veracity. These 
things satisfied my grandfather and his lawyers. 
They proved sufficient to instal me as his grand¬ 
son and his heir. That is all past history. It is 
an accomplished fact. If you can disprove it, it 


Lorimer Lane 


217 


is up to you to do so. I understand, Burr,” the 
speaker's voice softened, “how you feel about it. 

I know how galling it must be to have an ap¬ 
parent outsider come in and take what you had 
learned to look upon as your place. Especially 
an outsider whose unfortunate circumstances in 
the past had made him not quite—shall we say, 
to the manner bom? I understand all that, I 
say, and for that reason, I shall not take up this 
quarrel with you,—though I dare say I ought. 
For I'm not going to stand any more of it, Burr. 

If you have any proofs of my falsity, if you can 
show wherein I have deceived my grandfather, 
or anybody else, go ahead and do so, otherwise, 
don't refer to it. You’ll have to put up or shut 
up, or—I’ll know the reason why.” 

“You have the whip hand, Joyce. You have 
the inside track,—and yet-” 

11 That's what I won’t stand for! None of that , 
1 and yet'! Now, if we're to get along together 
at all,—you and I,—and it is surely to your 
advantage that we should, you’ll have to change 
your attitude. But, while we’re on this subject, 
I'll tell you one thing. I am Joyce Gilray,—the 
real Joyce Gilray. Get that in your head. But, 
it is possible that another claimant may appear. 
No, I won’t tell you any more, for the other 
claimant may never appear. But if such a thing 
should happen, remember I warned you of the 



218 


The Fourteenth Key 


possibility, and remember that I am the real 
grandchild of Mark Winslow, the real and only 
child of his daughter Helen and the man she 
eloped with. That’s all,” and Gilray’s lips set 
in a firm line, and his whole manner was so 
grave and stem, that Burr, though he looked 
at him wonderingly, said no more on the sub¬ 
ject. 

“Now, as to this matter of Professor Curran,” 
Gilray took up the conversation, after a short 
pause, “let’s decide it together. Do you think 
we should let the thing drop or can you think of 
any further means to use in tracking him down? ” 

Burr Winslow hesitated only a moment. He 
was a little inclined to get up and walk out of his 
cousin’s house, but he reconsidered and con¬ 
cluded to stay. 

“You know, Joyce,” he said, slowly, “my 
idea is like Uncle Mark’s was, if you go into a 
thing don’t stop short of the very best means to 
your desired end.” 

“Meaning what, exactly?” said Gilray, look¬ 
ing a little blank. 

“Meaning that if we want to find Curran,-— 
and we do, don’t we?” 

“You bet we do! The very worst way!’’ 

“Then why not go straight to the one man we 
know of who can find him?” 

“Who?” 


Lorimer Lane 


219 


“Lorimer Lane, the detective Uncle Mark 
wanted to get to look into the matter of that 
girl-” 

“I know. But Uncle Mark gave up the idea 
of getting Lane.” 

“Why did he?” 

“I don’t know, I’m sure. He just dropped the 
whole subject. You know how averse grand¬ 
father was to attending to any unpleasant 
business.” 

“Yes, I know, but he was keen for Lane at 
one time.” 

“He certainly was. Well, Burr, if you think 
it wise to get Lane on this thing, I’m willing to 
do it. Lord knows, I want to know who killed 
Granfer, and have him get his just deserts. If 
he’s the same man who killed that poor girl, 
then that mystery will be solved also. Though I 
can’t think that just because each was stabbed 
with a knife, the murderer was identical. But 
that’s neither here nor there. I never felt much 
personal interest in the girl’s death, but I do in 
Granfer’s and I’m ready to engage Lorimer Lane 
or anybody else you recommend to dig into the 
mystery. I’ll foot the bills,—but, I say, Burr, I 
don’t want the man staying here. It isn’t that 
I’m inhospitable, and of course, there’s plenty of 
room in this big house,—and I’m in New York 
a lot, I know,—but, all the same, I’d rather pay 



220 


The Fourteenth Key 


his board somewhere in the vicinity—what do 
you think?” 

“Oh, I’m sure that would be all right. I 
don’t believe he’d expect to stay here, and I’m 
not sure he’d want to. Let him stay at Mrs. 
Plum’s.” 

“Why not the Inn? It would suit a man bet¬ 
ter, I should say, than that boarding-house.” 

“All right, he can suit himself. Will you 
write for him to come? ” 

“Yes, I’ll write to-night. And then, Burr, 
you can put him on my trail, too, and see if he 
can prove to your satisfaction that I’m not my 
grandfather’s grandson.’ ’ 

Winslow looked up with a sudden flush, but 
he only said, gravely, “You dare me to do that? ” 

“What a word! As if we were schoolboys 
giving and taking a ‘dare’! But if the great 
sleuth can prove I’m not Joyce Gilray, I’ll most 
certainly step down and out. I’m not at all 
afraid, however,—but I do want you to feel 
satisfied.” 

“I think I do, Joyce. Your attitude just now 
goes far to prove my faith in you, and if I’ve 
misjudged you, I ask your pardon.” 

“No, Burr, that won’t do. If I’m a wrong ’un, 
you’ve no call to ask my pardon,—and, if you’ve 
misjudged me to that extent,—it’s too big an 
offense to pardon.” 


Lorimer Lane 


221 


“ You’re right, Joyce, you’re perfectly right,” 
and Burr Winslow went home wondering if his 
regret at losing his uncle’s favor had so warped 
his whole nature as to make him unduly sus¬ 
picious of his cousin’s rights therein. 

Only two days later, Lorimer Lane arrived. 

He went first to the Winslow house and was 
received by Gilray, who offered to give him the 
history of the case. 

“ Unless you’d prefer to have the police ver¬ 
sion,” Gilray said. 

“Are they different?” Lane asked. He was 
a man of middle age, with quiet, reserved man¬ 
ner and a pleasant smile. 

“Not that I know of,” Joyce assured him, 
thinking as he looked at the detective that he 
didn’t seem very shrewd, whatever he might 
prove to be. 

“How did your grandfather come to drop that 
other matter—the murdered girl?” Lane asked, 
as they sat down in - the library for their 
chat. 

“The truth is, my grandfather never liked to 
discuss unpleasant subjects or think about un¬ 
pleasant matters. He did think at first that he 
wanted you to come here and delve into the 
mystery, but as the time went by, and nothing 
further turned up, he sort of forgot about it,— 


222 The Fourteenth Key 

or, at least, he ignored it, and the matter 
dropped.” 

11 1 see. Well, now for this new mystery. But, 
—if it is painful for you, Mr. Gilray,—let us call 
in somebody else to help. For I must know all 
the details before I can get to work at all.” 

“No, Mr. Lane, I’ll tell you myself. It is 
painful, of course, but it is the one of the few 
things I can do for my grandfather, and I want 
to do my best.” 

Whereupon, Gilray gave the detective a de¬ 
tailed account of the happenings of the afternoon 
of Mark Winslow’s death. 

He had a most interested auditor, and was 
often interrupted in his narrative by the ques¬ 
tions the detective wished to put. 

“Your suspicions have never turned toward 
Dickson? ” Lane asked, as Joyce came to the end 
of his tale. 

“Why, no,” and there was utter astonish¬ 
ment in the tone. “Nobody ever thought of 
such a thing.” 

“Well, don’t mention it to any one. Doubt¬ 
less it isn’t so at all. Only, you see, I thought 
the man had opportunity-” 

“But no motive! What motive could Dick¬ 
son possibly have had for killing my grand¬ 
father?” 

“We don’t know what motive Curran had—• 



Lorimer Lane 


223 


or anybody else. But, don’t take that sug¬ 
gestion too seriously, Mr. Gilray. A newcomer 
on the case, as I am, must get his bearings before 
being able to place his suspicions justly at all.” 

“But surely you suspect Curran, Mr. Lane?” 

“Why, yes, he is certainly a suspicious charac¬ 
ter. You’ve not been able to locate him?” 

“ No, I told you that.” Joyce began to think 
the great detective positively stupid. “We 
can’t get a line on him at all,—that’s why we 
think he was some old enemy of my grand¬ 
father’s who returned here to kill him-” 

“And trumped up all this geology business, 
and took a room at the boarding-house and all 
that—why didn’t he just come and ring the bell 
as he did,—and accomplish his fell purpose 
without all that elaborate preparation?” 

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” Joyce looked sur¬ 
prised at the thought. “But there are the facts, 
now make what you can of them.” 

“I’d like to stay at that same boarding-house,” 
Lane suggested. “It might be a help you see.” 

“Do so, if you wish,—but you’d find the 
Inn more comfortable and more of a popular 
meeting place for people who might perhaps 
help you in your work.” 

“Nobody can help me,” said Lane, in a rather 
lugubrious tone. “I work alone.” 

“Oh, very well, doubtless Mrs. Plum can give 



224 


The Fourteenth Key 


you a room. I’ll send you over in a car. Do 
you want to go now?” 

“ Yes, please. And I’ll report as soon as I find 
out anything of consequence.” 

Lorimer Lane departed, and Joyce Gilray sat 
for a long time pondering on the probabilities of 
a man with so little force of personality ever 
discovering the solution of one of the most mys¬ 
terious murders ever known. 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE PLUM BOARDERS 

Mrs. Plum willingly took the detective into 
her hospitable home but she refused to let him 
occupy the room that she still considered Pro¬ 
fessor Curran’s. 

“He might come back any minute,” the good 
lady declared. “And might claim his room,— 
and then, where’d I be, I’d like to know! I 
don’t say as he’s a murderer,—I don’t. Nobody 
has proved it that I can see.” 

“Very well,” Lorimer Lane agreed; “then 
give me another room, but I must insist on per¬ 
mission to look the Professor’s room over, when¬ 
ever I like,—if he isn’t here. And I can assure 
you positively, Mrs. Plum, he will not return.” 

“No, I don’t suppose he will,” she conceded, 
“but it goes against the grain to use his room 
before he’s given it up.” 

So Lane was comfortably fixed in an adjoining 
room, and Poppy flew in and out bringing towels 
and soap and pins and anything she could think 
of that would give her an opportunity to become 
acquainted with the new boarder. 

225 


226 


The Fourteenth Key 


"I’m quite sure, Miss Plum, that I need 
nothing more,” Lane said, at last, as she ap¬ 
peared with a third vase full of flowers. 

The flowers were merely some late asters, and 
spikes of goldenrod, and Poppy arranged and re¬ 
arranged them as if she were a professional 
decorator. 

''There’s no wedding going on, you know,” he 
said, quizzically, as he watched her arduous efforts. 

"Well, Mr. Lane, I want your room to look 
pleasant,” and she gave him one of her most 
elaborately arch smiles. 

"Then clear out and let me arrange my own 
belongings so it will look pleasant to me.” 

Lane’s voice was bantering rather than rude, 
and Poppy understood and so with a gay little 
wave of farewell, she left him to his own devices. 

But, alone, Lorimer Lane only tossed some 
brushes and night things out of his bag, and 
then dropped into the easy chair to think it all 
over. 

"Most interesting case,” he told himself, after 
some cogitation. "No way to look at present, 
because there are so many ways to look. The 
Professor is, of course, mixed up in it, but may 
or may not be a principal. I wonder about that 
Jenks, now. Is he the trusted old retainer he 
seems? And the two cousins,—Gilray ,and 
Winslow. They are not entirely at one,— 


The Plum Boarders 


227 


though that’s not surprising, when Joyce came 
in and took Burr’s place. Logic would point to 
Burr Winslow as the villain, but I can see no 
reason as yet to suspect him. 

'‘But I do see a connection between the two 
murders. That is, it seems to me there must be. 
Not only because the wound in each case was 
made with a similar instrument and the instru¬ 
ment was not found, but because there’s no 
way to look for the murderer of the girl; nor, ex¬ 
cept for that elusive Professor, is there any way 
to look for Mark Winslow’s murderer. But the 
very mystery of the thing makes me think it 
will be more easy to get at the truth, than if it 
were apparently simpler.” 

By which rambling thoughts it may be clearly 
seen that the great detective hadn’t really de¬ 
tected much as yet. 

He went down to the dinner table, and was 
given a seat between the landlady and her 
daughter. 

This at once proved his status in Mrs. Plum’s 
eyes and the other boarders began to speculate 
as to whether she could acquire the detective for 
a son-in-law. 

Lane, however, was in blissful ignorance of the 
possible meaning of his seat of honor, and 
beamed pleasantly round on all as he made some 
light and general conversation. 


228 


The Fourteenth Key 


But no one was content with this, and in a 
short time, the whole company were talking of 
the Winslow case and begging the detective to 
tell them all he thought or surmised on the sub¬ 
ject. 

Lane was sufficiently master of the fine art of 
evasion to satisfy their demands yet at the same 
time give them no information whatever, and 
he encouraged talk on the matter, but absorbed 
far more data than he gave out. 

The boarders were wrong in their assumption 
that Mrs. Plum had an eye to Poppy’s matri¬ 
monial chances with Lorimer Lane. Her plans 
were far deeper and her hopes far higher than 
that. Moreover, though she knew Lane was 
unmarried, she didn’t know anything about his 
friends or home or fortune. 

And there was another man of whose prospects 
she knew a great deal. 

This was Joyce Gilray himself. For a long 
time she had wished she could bring about a 
meeting between her daughter and the heir of 
the Winslow estates, but this she could see no 
way of doing. 

One of her boarders, Sam Robbins, knew Burr 
Winslow, but this rather roundabout path had 
not as yet proved available. Now, she began to 
think that there might be a possible chance, 
through the great detective, of getting in touch 


The Plum Boarders 


229 


with Joyce Gilray, and, the prideful mother felt, 
that if he could once see her beautiful Poppy, at 
her best, he must instantly capitulate. 

But this all required diplomacy and patience, 
so, for the moment, Mrs. Plum was devoting her 
energies to making her new guest feel at home, 
and bringing about friendly relations between 
him and Poppy. 

Though no words had passed on the subject, 
Poppy was not entirely unaware of her mother’s 
maneuvers, and not at all averse to doing her 
own share in the campaign. 

She, therefore, played a frank and friendly r61e 
with Lorimer Lane, adding a dash of archness by 
her side remarks, in chaffing vein to Robbins, 
who was her abject slave at all times. 

Robbins sat at a side table—the one wheie 
the Professor had been domiciled—and though 
he could talk across, he hadn’t the privileges of 
the main table. 

Yet Lane mentally picked him out as a mine 
of information, and determined that as soon as 
he could he would question him. 

“How long will it take you to find the mur¬ 
derer of Mr. Winslow, Mr. Lane?’’ piped up a 
lively, pink-faced young chap who sat opposite. 

“That will depend on his own cleverness,” 
Lane returned, easily. “If he is tricky and 
sharp-witted he may give me a long chase, but 


230 


The Fourteenth Key 


if he is absent-minded or forgetful, he may leave 
traces that I can follow up at once.” 

“How thrilling!” exclaimed Poppy, rolling 
her eyes at Lane. “And Professor Curran was 
absent-minded——-’ ’ 

“I don’t think he was,” Sam Robbins pro¬ 
tested, “I’d say he was only pretending to be 
absent-minded. You see, he sat at this table, 
and you can tell a lot about a fellow who’s 
eating- 

“Nonsense!” Poppy tossed her head, “you’re 
not so cute, Sam, that you can distinguish be¬ 
tween real and pretended absent-mindedness! 
Why, you’re awfully absent-minded yourself!” 

There was a general laugh at this, but Sam 
Robbins stuck to his guns. “That’s just why,” 
he claimed. “I am absent-minded—a little,— 
and that’s why I know the real thing when I see 
it! I say, Mr. Lane, do you really think you can 
find out who that Professor was—or is? He’s 
nobody’s fool, I can tell you that much!” 

“Of course I can find him,” Lane spoke in a 
careless tone. “Anybody can find anybody else, 
if he looks hard enough. No one can hide so that 
he can’t be found by somebody.” 

This rather foolish speech provoked many fool¬ 
ish answers, and Lane egged on the talk, hoping 
that in all the chaff he might find a grain of 
wheat. 



The Plum Boarders 


231 


“I suppose you wouldn’t tell a scrap of any¬ 
thing you’ve discovered so far,” Poppy chal¬ 
lenged him, at last. “I know detectives keep 
secret anything they find out.” 

“I don’t,” Lane said, with an air of surprise. 
“ Why should I? I’m quite ready to tell all I’ve 
learned regarding Professor Curran. And it’s 
only that he is disguised. Whoever he is and 
whatever he looks like, he is not an elderly 
geologist at all.” 

“I knew it,—I knew it!” Poppy fairly scream¬ 
ed in excitement, “I knew it, Mr. Lane, because 
once—once, he shaved!” 

“Ah, did he?” and Lane turned quickly to 
her. “You’re sure?” 

“Yes, I’m sure,—I take care of his room, and 
one day there were bits of shaving papers in his 
waste basket—*—•” 

“Then he is absent-minded. He never left 
them there but once? ” 

“No, only once.” Poppy and Lane were now 
facing each other and talking earnestly. They 
seemed to have forgotten the others; they seemed 
oblivious to the fact that the subjects they dis¬ 
cussed were not conventional table talk, they 
were bent on proving the old professor was not 
wearing a natural beard of his own. 

“Pshaw! I’d have sworn those were home¬ 
grown whiskers,” Robbins declared. “Do you 


232 The Fourteenth Key 

mean to say, Poppy, that was a boughten 
beard?” 

“Of course it was,—though it was certainly a 
good one-•” 

“It was indeed,” Robbins agreed, and others 
voiced assent. 

4 ‘And there’s your absent-mindedness! ’ ’ Rob¬ 
bins went on, triumphantly, “always remem¬ 
bering not to shave so’s it’d be noticed,—and 
then, one time, thinking of something else, slip¬ 
ping up—what say, Mr. Lane?” 

“I say you’re right, and since w T e’ve proved a 
false beard, we can assume other disguise. I 
daresay he is a younger man than he seems, but 
I doubt if he did anything else very especial to 
make him look old. The grayish whiskers and 
a dash of powder on his hair,—or, perhaps a wig, 
—and of course, he wore big glasses, with horn 
or shell rims——” 

Chorus of, “Yes, he did!” 

“Well, with a different type of clothing, no 
more disguise than that would be needed to 
transform any one’s appearance beyond recog¬ 
nition.” 

“Then it was some old enemy of Mark 
Winslow’s-” 

“Or the son of some old enemy,” another sur¬ 
mised. 

“Or a paid gunman-” 




The Plum Boarders 


233 

“Or any representative of somebody who 
wanted Mr. Winslow put out of the way.” 

“Why representative?” Lane asked, inter¬ 
ested in these impulsive guesses. 

“Because he’s a young man,” Poppy said, 
quickly. 

“Not necessarily,” Lane argued. “He may 
be clean shaven and yet be really old. Perhaps 
his gray hair is rightfully gray, and his glasses 
are a necessity.” 

“I don’t see that it matters,” Robbins said, 
“we know he is disguised, now does that help 
to find him, or not, Mr. Lane?” 

“Not, probably. Surely it would be easier to 
look for a man whose appearance we know than 
one we don’t. But it helps to know that the 
Professor is disguised, for now the one type we 
don’t have to look for is the bewhiskered, 
scholarly gentleman. Your Professor may really 
be a dapper dandyish sort, clean shaven and 
clear-eyed.” 

But when dinner was over, Lane took Poppy 
and Sam Robbins and the three went to the 
room the Professor had used. 

“I felt sure those whiskers were false,” Lane 
said, carrying on his trend of thought. “And 
the fact that they were good ones proves that 
we have a clever impostor to deal with. You’re 
a good girl, Poppy, to note that shaving business 




2 34 


The Fourteenth Key 


and remember it. And you, Mr. Robbins, have 
quick and original ideas. So, I'll ask you both 
to help me all you can.’ , 

Greatly flattered at his words, the two young 
people expressed willingness to aid in any way 
they could. 

"All you can do,” the detective said to Poppy, 
"is to watch out for any further mail or mes¬ 
sage that comes for Curran. I doubt if there’ll 
be any, I think that having accomplished his fell 
purpose, he has departed for good and all. You 
see, the thing resolves itself into a simple se¬ 
quence of events. The enemy of Mark Wins¬ 
low, preparing to kill him, either came himself 
or sent an emissary to Willowvale. This, of 
course, was Curran; and he made his home here 
and came several times by way of establishing 
himself as a harmless, unobtrusive person. After 
getting so that he could go in and out unques¬ 
tioned, he simply made ready, walked over to 
the Winslow house and killed his man, then 
disappeared.” 

"How did he disappear?” asked Robbins, 
eagerly. 

"That’s the present mystery,—one of them,” 
Lane said. " But we’ve made progress, and we’ll 
make more.” 

"There are lots of ways he could have got 
away,” Poppy said, looking contemptuously at 


The Plum Boarders 


235 


Robbins. “That butler of Winslow’s may not 
be telling the truth about all the doors being 
locked. If the side door locks with a spring 
catch, of course the man could have gone out 
that way and shut the door behind him. Then 
it would have locked itself.” 

“That’s so, Poppy,” Robbins agreed. “And 
that door is on the other side of the house from 
where Dickson was working and also out of 
range of Joyce Gilray’s windows.” 

“Yes, and that’s only one way,” Poppy went 
on. “The man could have slipped into a coat 
closet or some such place, and then, when Jenks 
went to the door to see the postman, the man 
could have slipped out to the back part of the 
house and out at the kitchen door.” 

“You’re a fairly astute young woman,” ex¬ 
claimed Lane, looking at Poppy, admiringly. 

“Oh, pshaw,” she said, “I bet you thought of 
those ways long ago,—and others, too.” 

As a matter of fact, Lane had, but even her sur¬ 
mise of it, increased his respect for her mentality. 

“Now, let’s look about this room and see 
what we see,” he suggested. “Suppose we 
search silently for a few minutes, and then tell 
what we’ve found.” 

Poppy’s eyes glistened. This was the sort of 
game she loved, and it was exhilarating to be at 
real work with the great detective. 


236 


The Fourteenth Key 


After five minutes, Lane said: 

“Well, my children, what have you found? 
Ladies first. Any discoveries, Miss Poppy?” 

“No,” and Poppy looked downcast. “At 
least only one,—and that’s a negative one.” 

“All right, what is it? Out with it!” 

“Well, Mr. Lane, it’s only this. Pve been 
looking over the letters in the letter rack, and 
they’re all without personal or individual signif¬ 
icance. I mean, they’re every one circulars, 
begging letters, advertisements, or things of that 
sort. Not a letter from a friend or fellow pro¬ 
fessor, not even a bill, except those from my 
mother for this room, and they are all duly re¬ 
ceipted. Now, it looks to me as if they were all 
here for show,—I mean for inquisitive persons to 
look at and,—learn nothing. If there was just 
one social letter, just one other bill, it wouldn’t 
seem quite so strange.” 

'‘Good, Poppy. That’s a true note you’ve 
struck. It goes to help prove what is rapidly 
becoming indubitable, that Professor Curran 
was incognito and in disguise. Anything from 
you, Mr. Robbins?” 

“One thing right in the same line, Mr. Lane. 
These books on Geology are not very erudite or 
advanced. While not exactly beginner’s hand¬ 
books they are not what you’d expect to find on 
the desk of an expert who made trips up here to 


The Plum Boarders 


237 

hunt specimens. See, they're practically school 
text-books." 

“ Proving that they were selected by one who 
wanted to appear a geologist, but who was un¬ 
versed in the literature of the science." 

"Exactly that,— don’t you agree, Mr. Lane?" 

"I do. Especially as the leaves turned down 
in these books—as if the student had pored 
over them—are really turned down at random. 
See, here is one turned up from the bottom, as if 
to mark a special paragraph, yet on this whole 
page is nothing worthy of note—it is an unusu¬ 
ally commonplace dissertation on quartz. Well, 
we’re obliged to believe the Professor wore his 
geological lore as falsely as he wore his whiskers." 

"What did you find, Mr. Lane?" Poppy asked, 
interestedly. 

"Right in line with your own findings. I 
noticed the dressing-gown and slippers. Look 
at them! Gown of big-flowered delaine! And 
carpet slippers! Now, such things used to be 
associated with elderly and scholarly men, but 
not nowadays. Such garments haven’t been seen 
in use for years. Yet these are comparatively 
new,—bought recently. Doesn’t it look as if the 
man who owned them desired greatly to play the 
part of an old mossback professor, and that he 
mistakenly thought these were a necessary part 
of the paraphernalia?" 


238 


The Fourteenth Key 


“That makes him out an older man than I 
had in mind,” Robbins said quickly. “A young 
man wouldn't know about those things,—I 
didn't.” 

“Whoever knew, knew wrong,” Lane said, 
positively, as he hung the gaudy gown back in 
the wardrobe and set the slippers inside, too. 
“ On the stage you know, they still represent the 
old minister or professor as wearing these things, 
but they don't really do it any more. Well, 
young folks, you've helped me a bit, and enter¬ 
tained me a lot. Now, I think, we'll call it a 
day.” 

“What have you learned?” Poppy asked, 
coming nearer the detective, and smiling up at 
him bewitchingly. 

But Lane was proof against such blatant 
blandishments and stepped away from her, as he 
answered: 

“One thing, positively. That Professor Cur¬ 
ran was not Professor Curran at all,—in name, 
personality or profession.” 

“And who was he?” Robbins asked breath¬ 
lessly. 

“That’s our next job,—to find that out,” said 
Lane, a bit seriously. 

For Lorimer Lane was a serious detective. 
His demeanor before the two young people was 
not at all like the air he assumed when, a few 


The Plum Boarders 


239 


moments later, he sat in his own room and 
studied deeply over the matter. 

“If I could only have been here sooner,” he 
thought regretfully. “Now, every trail is cold, 
every trace obliterated,—or nearly. Well, I’ve 
a lot to go on,—and I’ve more than a lot to 
learn! Circumstances are of the strangest,— 
but the people are stranger still. Those two 
cousins, now. Well, of course, they’re not ex¬ 
actly cousins, but distant connections. There’s 
no love lost between them,—yet Gilray seems 
kindly disposed toward Burr Winslow. And 
Lord knows, it’s not surprising if Winslow is sore 
on Joyce! Coming out of the nowhere and grab¬ 
bing all his present glories and future hopes! 
I’d feel sore at that myself! Guess I’ll go to see 
Gilray and have a word of chat.” 

Telephoning to make sure he was at home, 
Lane was soon in Joyce Gilray’s presence. 

The young man was a cordial and hospitable 
host, and when they were comfortably smoking, 
he said, “Now, then, Mr. Lane, anything of im¬ 
portance to tell me?” 

“Some. This, for one thing. The murderer 
of your uncle is a man well under middle age, 
about average height, and above average in¬ 
telligence. He is smooth shaven and alert 
minded, except in rare moments when he is 
absent-minded. ’ ’ 


240 


The Fourteenth Key 


“A geologist?” and Joyce smiled a little. 

“ Knows about as much geology as I do, which 
is a mere smattering.” 

4 ‘But I felt sure it was the Professor who 
killed him!” and Gilray looked his amazement. 

“But I said, clean shaven-” 

“I know,—but I always felt that that Pro¬ 
fessor might have worn a false beard as a dis¬ 
guise. You see, Mr. Lane, I’m pretty much of the 
opinion that it was an old-time enemy of my 
grandfather who came here that day and killed 
him. So what more probable than that the man 
was more or less disguised?” 

“But surely a false beard wouldn’t disguise a 
man utterly.” 

“It would go far toward doing so. A slight 
disguise is often even more effective than an 
elaborate one.” 

“Yes, that’s so, and it may be you’re right. 
But would it not follow that the professorial at¬ 
titude was also assumed and that the man had 
no more scientific learning than he had beard?” 

“Of course that may well be so, but how did 
you discover that?’ 

“Only an assumption, Mr. Gilray, because 
the text-books in his room at Mrs. Plum’s are so 
simple as to be almost elementary. They’re 
books for the lay reader rather than the professor. 
However, that’s a minor point. The thing is to 



The Plum Boarders 


241 


find the man. I don’t care what he is when not 
disguised, I don’t care what his scientific at¬ 
tainments are, I must find him and I’m going to 
do so. And to that end I ask your help.” 

“ Willingly, Mr. Lane, in any way you sug¬ 
gest. What can I do first?” 

“Give me full swing in this library, among 
your grandfather’s papers—especially old papers. 
If this is the result of a long ago feud or early 
quarrel, it may well be that some reference to it 
can be found in old letters.” 

“Yes,” Joyce spoke thoughtfully. “And I 
can’t think of any reason why you should be 
denied access to any and all of my grandfather’s 
papers. Yet I think I may ask to be present, 
myself, when you look over them, for to tell you 
the truth, that’s a job I haven’t tackled myself 
yet. I’ve meant to get at it,—but it’s a sad 
thing to do—however, maybe Mr. Brett will 
help us out. Yes, that will fix it,—let Mr. Brett, 
he’s my lawyer, go over the papers with you. 
Then he can lay aside anything that requires my 
definite attention and you can spot anything that 
bears on your research work.” 

“That will do nicely, Mr. Gilray. Also, I 
want a talk with your servants,—some of them.” 

“Of course,—all that sort of thing, whenever 
you like. Now, Mr. Lane, can you give me any 
idea of your plans,—I mean aside from this 


242 The Fourteenth Key 

necessary questioning and so forth? Have you 
any theory as yet,—granting that the murderer 
was the make-believe professor and that he was 
an old-time enemy of my grandfather’s?” 

“Well, Mr. Gilray, that is about as far as I’ve 
gone,—but remember I ’ ve not been at work long. 

“I should say you hadn’t! Forgive me for my 
thoughtless speech. You see, it seems years to 
me since my grandfather met his fate,—and I 
can’t realize how short a time it really is.” 

“Then, since you ask me as to plans, and that, 
I’ll say that my methods, though simple, are 
not quite like the regular detective’s ways. 
Often, as you know, they are extremely secretive 
and talk to no one about what they’re doing or 
trying to do. I, on the contrary, talk to every¬ 
body I can find, who may know anything about 
the matter. I question them all, and get them to 
talk, and out of a day’s chatter, I may find one 
or two helpful points. It seems to you, doubt¬ 
less, a strange and unnecessary mode of pro¬ 
cedure, but I assure you it has proved most 
successful, in my experience.” 

“All right, Mr. Lane, pursue your usual 
methods, by all means, and count on my help 
whenever you can use it.” 

And after further desultory discussion of the 
same matters, Lane went home and sat up half 
the night thinking things out. 


CHAPTER XIV 


DOUBTS 

Pursuant of his plan for getting all the general 
information he could, Lane started off the next 
morning to call on Burr Winslow. But the 
young man was over at the Mark Winslow house, 
and Lane was about to depart when Molly Wins¬ 
low appeared. 

"Stay and talk to me,” she said, engagingly. 
"You’re the great detective, aren’t you? Per¬ 
haps I can help you in some way.” 

"I’d be glad of help, Mrs. Winslow,” Lane 
returned, and his air of gratitude was flattering. 
When the detective chose to make himself agree¬ 
able, his manner was delightfully ingratiating. 

The two sat in the pleasant morning room, and 
Lane, by occasional hints or questions, drew his 
hostess on to give him a deal of useful informa¬ 
tion. 

And Molly needed little encouragement. She 
was bitterly angry at Joyce Gilray for coming 
into the family and spoiling the chances of her 


243 


244 


The Fourteenth Key 


own son. Burr would now be the heir of 
Mark Winslow and the inheritor of the estate, 
but for that upstart intruder. 

“Yet, he’s the grandson, while Mr. Burr 
Winslow is but a nephew,” Lane reminded her. 

“He says he is—” Molly’s hesitation was 
dramatic. 

“There’s no doubt of it, is there?” Lane’s 
manner gave no hint of his interest in this ques¬ 
tion. He had thought of investigating the 
validity of Gilray’s claims, and here was a chance 
to start the ball rolling. 

“N—no, I suppose not. He satisfied his 
grandfather and the lawyers. No, there’s no 
chance of his being other than he pretends,—• 
but I wish—I wish there was such a chance. 
My heavens, Mr. Lane,—if we could prove that 
man an impostor——” 

“Are you merely voicing your wishes, or have 
you the least reason to think him a fraud? ” Lane 
asked, for he took small stock in the excited 
woman’s arguments. 

“Well,—I’ll tell you this. There is no definite 
reason that I know of to suspect Joyce of trick¬ 
ery,—-and yet — ” Molly hesitated, for Burr 
had forbidden her to hint at these things. “Oh, 
well, I suppose he’s all right,” she concluded, 
lamely. 

“You know something, Mrs. Winslow,” 


Doubts 


245 


Lane said, with a wheedlesome smile. “Now, 
don’t you think you’d better tell me what it is,— 
for I’m out for the truth, and if your knowledge 
is true-” 

“I don’t know that it is—•” Molly hesitated, 
for though always inclined to garrulity, she yet 
had a wholesome fear of Burr’s displeasure. 

And at this point, Burr himself walked in. 

“Hello, Mr. Lane,” he said, “you are Mr. 
Lane,—aren’t you?” 

“Yes, Mr. Winslow,” and the detective rose 
as Molly made more formal presentation of her 
son. 

“I’m just over from my cousin’s,” Burr went 
on. “He’s looking for you over there, I think.” 

“Yes, I’m going. I stopped here to see you, 
Mr. Winslow. I like to feel acquainted with all 
the members of the family. I’ve had a little 
chat with your mother, and, if you don’t mind, 
I’d like to ask a few questions of you.” 

“Go ahead,” Burr said, taking a chair, and 
offering Lane his cigarette case. 

“First of all,” the detective began, “have you 
the slightest reason to think Mr. Gilray is not 
the grandson of Mark Winslow?” 

“My mother has been chattering,” Burr said, 
calmly, and Molly began to deny it. 

“No, I haven’t,” she cried. “I-” 

“Never mind, Mrs. Winslow,” Lane inter- 



246 


The Fourteenth Key 


rupted her, “this matter is too serious to bother 
about trifles. Mr. Winslow, if there’s the least 
doubt as to the identity of Joyce Gilray, I want 
to know it——” 

“Mr. Lane,” Burr spoke carefully, “I have no 
real reason to think there is the slightest doubt 
that Joyce Gilray is just what he represents him¬ 
self to be,—the son of Helen Gilray, Mark Wins¬ 
low’s daughter. He brought many papers and 
documents, all of which satisfied Mr. Winslow 
and his lawyer, Martin Barry, a clever and 
astute man. Yet, later,—well, I don’t know 
exactly what happened, but Barry must have 
raised some sort of a doubt or question, for my 
Uncle Mark discharged him, summarily, and 
replaced him by a man named Brett. This man 
is now lawyer for my cousin Joyce, and has, I 
am sure, no doubts of Joyce’s integrity. I am 
quite ready to admit, Mr. Lane, that it may 
well be my own chagrin and regret at being my¬ 
self put out of my previous position in my 
Uncle’s heart and home, that makes me want to 
think Joyce does not belong there.” 

“I’ve known you less than a half horn*, Mr. 
Winslow,” Lane spoke deliberately, “but I’ve 
sized you up pretty well. At least I know you 
are naturally truthful and honest. Therefore, I 
put it to you,—do you think Joyce Gilray is the 
grandson of Mr. Winslow?” 



Doubts 


247 

Burr hesitated, and Lane saw that he was 
trying to speak the exact truth. 

"It’s so hard to say,” was the reply, at last. 
"I can’t say I don’t think it,—and yet, there are 
moments when I feel a doubt. But, if I must 
answer, then—yes, I believe he is the real grand¬ 
son of my uncle, and I believe I should never 
have had even the shadow of a doubt, were it 
not for my own disappointment and regret at 
being turned down.” 

It had cost Burr an effort to acknowledge this, 
and Lane noted the relief that came to the young 
man after the speech was over. 

'‘You are honest!” he declared, looking ad¬ 
miringly at Burr. 

“I cannot deceive myself,” Burr returned, 
and his quiet voice gave more the effect of think¬ 
ing aloud than of talking to another. "I’ve 
always been like that. Of course, I couldn’t de¬ 
ceive anybody else,—I mean I wouldn’t, my 
sense of honor would prevent me,—but, also, I 
find it difficult to deceive myself. If I think a 
thing out, I can generally see that the tempta¬ 
tion to deceive one’s self is at the root of most 
false thinking. I doubt if I am making myself 
very clear,—but I know what I mean.” 

"I know what you mean, too,” Lane said, 
seriously. "And it shows deeper insight and 
truer frankness than most men possess. How- 


248 


The Fourteenth Key 


ever, since you are so frank, I take it, then, 
that you really believe Joyce Gilray is all he 
pretends to be.” 

“Yes, I do,” Burr said, doggedly, though 
Molly wrung her hands in despair, and would 
have spoken but for her son’s admonitory glances. 

Despairingly, she thought to herself, he was 
throwing away a good opportunity to cast 
doubt on Joyce’s claims, and perhaps the doubt 
could be turned to advantage. But she dared 
not voice this sort of thing while Burr looked at 
her so forbiddingly, and she sat silent. 

“ If I can be of any help to you,” Burr said, for 
Lane was rising to leave, “but Joyce tells me 
that you prefer to work alone.” 

“I work alone,” Lane said, “but that doesn’t 
mean that I can’t be helped. I get all I can in 
the way of information from any one I meet. 
Then the actual work, which is, of course, the 
sifting and weighing of all I have learned, I do 
alone. My ways and means are not at all mys¬ 
terious or even subtle. My methods are only the 
use of observation and common sense. They 
may not prove successful in this case. I don’t 
mind saying that it looks pretty complicated at 
present. But I’ve often found that a complex 
puzzle resolves itself into parts, and that not 
infrequently these parts are easy of solution and 
their answers throw light on the whole.” 


Doubts 


249 


“That’s interesting,” Burr said, “maybe I 
can help you on some of the parts, then. If so, 
let me know/’ 

“I certainly will,” Lane promised, and as he 
said goodbye, Molly Winslow found opportunity 
to give him a knowing glance and a wink of 
promise that said, as plainly as words could, that 
she, too, could help him on some of the parts. 

Being impressed, at the moment, with Burr's 
honesty of purpose, Lane felt slight interest in 
the offer of the self-prejudiced woman, but he 
stored away in his memory the unspoken offer of 
Molly Winslow. 

It was some time later before he went to the 
Mark Winslow home, where being shown into 
the library, he began in earnest to investigate 
the mystery of the millionaire’s death. 

“I have the history of the case from various 
sources,” he said to Gilray, in the abrupt way 
that was characteristic of him when very much 
in earnest. “I have the viewpoint of several 
people,—interesting, but not illuminative. Now, 
I want a short interview with you and with some 
of your servants,—then, I shall be equipped for 
my work.” 

“You sound very businesslike, Mr. Lane,” 
Gilray smiled at him; “and I’m glad to have 
you meet my lawyer, Mr. Brett.” 

The man he introduced to Lane was a sharp- 


250 


The Fourteenth Key 


featured, keen-looking man not much older than 
Gilray himself. But it was a young face that 
showed knowledge and wisdom beyond its years, 
and Lane looked curiously at the alert lawyer. 

" You two,” he said, “can quickly tell me all I 
want to know about Mr. Winslow’s financial 
affairs. Not that this would seem to have much 
bearing on the crime, but there may be a con¬ 
nection after all.” 

So for half an hour the lawyer and the new 
master of the Winslow fortunes went over lists 
of investments and securities, until Lane was 
entirely conversant with the holdings of the 
estate. 

"Now,” he said, "next, I’ll ask for the papers 
and letters which you brought, Mr. Gilray, by 
way of establishing your identity here. Or did 
your grandfather consider his recognition of you 
as his grandson sufficient guaranty?” 

"Both had weight with him,” Joyce returned; 
"you see, Mr. Lane, there was no one to be 
satisfied except my grandfather, and he re¬ 
quired no more than his natural and intuitive 
certainty that I was his grandson. However, I 
did bring a satchel full of my mother’s papers 
and letters, which are at your disposal if you 
want to see them.” 

"I do want to see them, Mr. Gilray, but not 
now. It is not likely they have any bearing on 


Doubts 


251 


the matter in hand, and I think that first of all 
we must turn our attention to the strange disap¬ 
pearance of the mysterious Professor Curran. 
You never heard your grandfather mention him, 
I think you told me last night.” 

“No, I never did.” 

“Yet Mr. Winslow must have known him, 
for he greeted him pleasantly when the butler 
admitted him.” 

“Yes, that is true. It seems to me that for 
that very reason, we must conclude the pro¬ 
fessor was not disguised, but was really an old 
acquaintance of my grandfather’s.” 

“But, you see, we’ve pretty well settled it 
that the professor was disguised, for Miss Poppy 
tells me that he shaved while staying at the 
Plum boarding-house. Now, as I’ve heard Cur¬ 
ran described, his wilderness of whiskers pre¬ 
cluded all idea of shaving——” 

“It certainly did!” Gilray smiled. “I never 
saw the man, except as I noticed him crossing 
the lawn that afternoon. But even from my 
window I noticed the luxuriant beard he 
flaunted.” 

“Then,—and Miss Poppy certainly displayed 
great shrewdness to notice it,—it must have been 
a false beard, for he is known to have shaved, at 
least, upon one occasion.” 

“That indicates a false beard and therefore a 



252 


The Fourteenth Key 


disguise,” Gilray declared. “Does that make it 
easier for you to find him, Mr. Lane?” 

“I shall find him easily enough,” Lane said, 
carelessly, “that isn’t what’s bothering me. 
And I shall learn why he killed his old friend, 
Mark Winslow,—for they must have been seem¬ 
ing friends for Mr. Winslow to have greeted him 
cordially.” 

“As I see it,” the lawyer Brett put in, “Mark 
Winslow greeted his visitor as a stranger, whom 
he had heard of, and didn’t know it was an old 
acquaintance until after they were alone to¬ 
gether.” 

“And then the visitor disclosed his identity 
and killed him?” 

“Yes,” Brett assented. “Isn’t that plaus¬ 
ible?” 

“Perfectly. And extremely probable. But, 
as I say, we’ll get the professor in due season, 
we’ll learn his motive then or before. Now, 
what I’m after is to learn why the professor also 
killed that poor, unknown girl, and right here on 
the Winslow doorstep.” 

Joyce looked his surprise. 

“Then you’re one of those who assume that 
because the fatal wounds are of similar shape, 
the two crimes were committed by the same 
person?” 

“Yes,” Lane said, with a positive air, “I am.” 


Doubts 


253 


“And Professor Curran killed the girl as well 
as murdered Mr. Winslow!’' exclaimed Brett, 
astounded. 

“Yes, I think so.” 

“There’s no evidence for or against it,” Brett 
said, speaking slowly, “no positive evidence, I 
mean. You see, the matter of the girl was not 
very deeply looked into. The victim was un¬ 
known and apparently friendless, and the police, 
after a half-hearted effort to find the murderer, 
let the case drop.” 

“I was asked by Mr. Winslow to come and 
look into that matter,” Lane informed his 
hearers, and then, later on he wrote he didn’t 
want me. You remember, Mr. Gilray? You 
wrote the letter advising me not to come.” 

“Yes,” Joyce nodded, “I remember. I wrote 
it at my grandfather’s command. He concluded 
it would bring him a lot of unpleasant noto¬ 
riety, and he was always disinclined for that sort 
of thing.” 

“And he didn’t feel it his duty to serve the 
ends of justice——” 

“No; grandfather wasn’t strong on his civic 
duties. He was,—if I may put it so,—inclined 
to the line of least resistance, when it came to 
anything of a public nature. He hated publicity, 
and to see his name in the papers enraged him 
beyond endurance. So, he decided to drop the 



2 54 


The Fourteenth Key 


matter since no one seemed to object to his doing 
so. Had the police actually held him respons¬ 
ible in any way or in the slightest degree, he 
would have taken the necessary steps at once. 
But, why do you say that the professor must 
have killed the girl, Mr. Lane? It puts a new 
face on the whole matter to my mind. I can 
conceive of an old acquaintance of my grand¬ 
father's being so inimical and revengeful be¬ 
cause of some old wrong, that he came here and 
killed him,—but to think of his also killing that 
strange woman, and here, at my grandfather’s 
house,—it seems too much of a coincidence.” 

"But it may be that it is just the coincidence 
that explains both murders,” argued the detec¬ 
tive. "And, mind you, I don’t say it is,—I 
don’t say the old professor killed the girl, but I 
do believe the crimes are in some way con¬ 
nected.” 

"It may be,” said Brett, "but I can’t see it. 
Of course, if the make-believe professor is a 
young man, masquerading as an old man, there 
would be more chance of his having killed 
the girl,—but why is a young man here to kill 
old Mr. Winslow?” 

"Oh, that doesn’t present any insuperable 
difficulties,” Lane said, gazing calmly at the 
young lawyer’s face. "Of course, if it had been, 
say, a family feud, such as were not unknown 


Doubts 


255 

even fifty years ago, the father may have passed 
on the task of revenge to his son-” 

“Sort of vendetta?’’ and Joyce gave the de¬ 
tective a quizzical smile. I don’t doubt your 
superior knowledge on these subjects, Mr. Lane, 
but it does seem incredible to think of a vendetta 
directed at my mild mannered, publicity dread¬ 
ing grandfather. Yet, I admit, I don’t know of 
any other reason for his death. I’m sure of this: 
there never was anything in grandfather’s life 
wrong or shady enough to bring about black¬ 
mail or anything of that sort. And yet, that is 
almost easier of belief than your vendetta theory. 
It’s all utterly incomprehensible!” 

Gilray threw out his hands with a helpless, 
hopeless gesture, and Lane hastened to reassure 
him. 

“That’s what I’m here for, Mr. Gilray. 
Don’t worry yourself unduly until I have had a 
try at it. I may fail, I may have to give up the 
task,—but, if so, it will be the first time I have 
failed.” 

“Is that so? Have you invariably been suc¬ 
cessful, Mr. Lane?” 

It was Brett who asked this, in genuine sur¬ 
prise at such a record. 

“I have always succeeded so far, Mr. Brett,” 
Lane returned, speaking gravely, “but I do not 
plume myself on the fact, for I have not taken 



256 


The Fourteenth Key 


up very many cases. I am not a professional 
detective, but a private one, and I take only 
such cases as interest me, and—to a certain de¬ 
gree—such as I think I can solve.” 

“ Then if it seems too much for you, you don't 
tackle it,—is that it?” the lawyer's tone was a 
trifle sneering. 

“ That’s it, exactly, Mr. Brett,” and Lane 
nodded. “To attempt something I feared I 
couldn’t put across would be unfair to my client 
as well as to myself,—don't you think so?” 

“I do,” and Joyce Gilray spoke decidedly. 
“I think that’s the right attitude, Mr. Lane. 
And I not only hope but feel sure you'll discover 
my grandfather’s murderer and bring him to 
justice. If he proves to be also the man who 
killed that unfortunate stranger, then so much 
the better for the cause of justice. But the case 
of Mark Winslow is the one that interests me.” 

“And me, too,” Lane declared. “Now, Mr. 
Gilray, if you've nothing more to tell me, and I 
don’t think you have, I’ll go for a bit of a talk 
with Jenks. And, too, I suppose I may have the 
run of the house? I want to go to your room, and 
sit where you sat when you saw the old professor 
come in at the gate. May I trot round by 
myself? ” 

“Yes, indeed. Do whatever you like, Mr. 
Lane. If you want Jenks or the housekeeper, or 


Doubts 257 

me,—just say the word. Or if you want to go it 
alone, why, do so.” 

" Very well,—I’ll report later,—if any.” 

" Wait a minute,” and Gilray looked as if un¬ 
certain whether or not to say something that was 
quite apparently in his mind. 

"What is it?” and Lane looked encouragingly 
at him; "better say anything you have to say.” 

"Well, it’s such a foolish bit of business,— 
and yet, I think I’d better tell you. Sit down 
again,—for a minute.” 

Lane sat down, and after a moment’s hesita¬ 
tion, Gilray gave his head a toss, and smiled. 

"It’s only a trifle, but to hesitate about it 
gives it an appearance of importance. So I’ll 
just tell you in the fewest possible words, that I 
have reason to think another claimant may ap¬ 
pear for the rights to the Winslow succession.” 

"Another claimant!” Lane repeated, as if 
incredulous. 

"Yes; I know it’s absurd, and will be merely a 
farce,—if indeed it ever comes about at all. But 
I’ve had one or two letters——” 

"Addressed to you?” 

"No, to my grandfather,—but of course, I 
open all his mail. I did, when he was alive.” 

"Oh, of course,—I wasn’t questioning your 
rights. I only want to get the hang of this new 
claimant.” 



258 


The Fourteenth Key 


“And I don’t want to tell you about it. It 
may be necessary,—but, if not,—don’t you see, 
Mr. Lane, that it’s just a bluff somebody is try¬ 
ing to throw,—and, if I can tackle it myself, and 
beat it,—I’d rather do it. If not, I’ll be mighty 
glad to call on you for help. I’m only mention¬ 
ing it to you, so that, if it comes to the point, 
you’ll know I was looking for it.” 

11 1 see. All right, Mr. Gilray, with your lawyer 
here, I’ve not the slightest doubt you can handle 
the matter of false claimants,—one or a dozen! ” 

“I’m sure we can,” and Brett smiled at the 
detective, who now rose again to go on his 
quest. 

Lane gave little thought or concern to the mat¬ 
ter that Gilray had just mentioned to him. If 
an impostor appeared to claim the Winslow 
heritage it was not a detective’s affair, unless, 
indeed, he were called in to investigate the new 
claim. And there had been no hint of that, so 
Lane felt no responsibility in that direction. 

But as to the murder case or cases, he felt a 
grave burden upon him. Moreover, his usual 
methods seemed not to fit the present circum¬ 
stances. Usually a murder mystery offered 
several possible suspects, and meant successive 
investigations. Here there was but one suspect, 
—the elusive, evasive professor. 

Lane no longer thought of Professor Curran as 


Doubts 


259 


an old man. Poppy’s assertion that he had 
shaved clinched the certainty that the professor 
was a smooth shaven man in disguise. Maybe 
old and maybe young, but positively not 
bearded. 

Now to see if Jenks could throw any further 
light on the man’s personal appearance. 

Except for the boarders at Mrs. Plum’s, Jenks 
was the only person who was known to have 
seen the professor at close range. Gilray saw 
him from an upper window, and Dickson, only 
casually, across a wide stretch of lawn. 

To the butler’s pantry Lane then made his 
way, and found Jenks there alone. 

The man was quite ready to talk, indeed, it 
seemed to Lane he must have been waiting for 
an opportunity. 

44 They never ask me anything,” he said, in an 
aggrieved tone. “Those police,—they’re so 
cocky, they know it all! Never strikes ’em I 
could tell ’em something!” 

“It’s all the same, Jenks, tell it to me.” Lane 
put on his most encouraging smile. “In fact it 
is wiser to tell me and me only,” a judicious 
lowering of his voice and a quick glance over his 
shoulder gave an impression of the desirability 
of secrecy, which Lane saw at once would appeal 
to the butler’s imagination. 

And it did, for, assuming there was mystery 


2 6o 


The Fourteenth Key 


to be maintained, Jenks dropped his own voice to 
a whisper and began. 

‘'Well, you see, Mr. Lane, I don’t know any¬ 
thing about Mr. Winslow’s murder, any more’n 
I’ve told. But as to that young woman, now— 
ah, I could tell a bit about her.” 

Lane purposely looked disappointed, though 
in truth he was eager to hear more. 

“Well, tell what you know,” he said, looking 
closely at Jenks. 

“I’ve seen her before,” the butler said, slowly. 
“Leastways I haven’t exactly seen her,—but 

_ >» 

“Well, out with it,—what have you seen?” 

“I’ve seen her picture—*—” 

Lane laughed aloud. “Seen her picture! 
Who hasn’t? Why, man, it was in all the 
papers.” 

“No sir,—-I don’t mean that way. I mean, 
sir, I’ve seen her in the—the Moving Pictures.” 




CHAPTER XV 


A NEWCOMER 

"At the Moving Pictures!” Lane was disap¬ 
pointed in earnest now. "That’s nothing— 
everybody goes to the Movies. But where was 
it,—where did you see her?” 

"Not at the Movies, Mr. Lane,—but in ’em. 
On the screen, you know.” 

Just then the doorbell rang, and though it 
was not his business to open the door, yet Jenks 
was supposed to hover in the background in case 
he might be wanted. 

So he stepped into the hall, listening, and Lane 
followed. 

They heard what was evidently the voice of a 
young woman, and she asked for Mr. Winslow. 

"Mr. Burr Winslow?” said the maid who was 
at the door, “he doesn’t live here.” 

"No, not Mr. Burr Winslow, but Mr. Mark 
Winslow,” the stranger’s voice went on, and 
Jenks looked inquiringly at the detective. 

"I’ll speak to her,” said Lane, quickly, and 
hastened to the door. 

"You’re looking for Mr. Mark Winslow?” 


262 The Fourteenth Key 

he said to the girl on the porch, “come in, 
please/’ 

He dismissed the maid with a peremptory 
nod, and taking the girl’s arm led her into a small 
reception room and closed the door behind them. 

“May I ask your name?” Lane said, politely, 
as he drew a chair for her. 

The girl looked frightened, tears sprang to 
her eyes and she trembled as she said, 

“Who are you? and why may I not see Mr. 
Winslow?” 

“You do not know, then, that Mr. Mark 
Winslow is—dead? ” 

It seemed to Lane the better plan to speak 
frankly and quickly, for they were liable to be 
interrupted at any minute, and he was exceed¬ 
ingly interested in this stranger. 

“Dead!” she repeated the word in a whisper, 
and her eyes took on a blank, unseeing look. 
“When—when did he die?” 

“About a fortnight ago—did you not read of 
it in the papers?” 

“No,—I’ve not seen any papers for—for a 
long time. Then—who is in—in charge? Can 
I see Mr. Burr Winslow?” 

“He doesn’t live here,—not in this house. 
He lives in Willowvale—but perhaps you’d like 
to see the present head of the house,—Mr. 
Gilray-” 


A Newcomer 


263 


“Who?” 

“Joyce Gilray—the grandson of Mark Wins¬ 
low-” 

Lane ceased speaking suddenly, for the girl 
had risen and her deep set eyes were flashing 
with determination. 

“What are you talking about? I am Joyce 
Gilray, the child of Helen Winslow, Mark’s 
daughter-” 

“You are! Can you substantiate your state¬ 
ment ?” 

“To the proper authorities,—yes.” 

There was no quiver in her voice now, no 
trembling, no appearance of fright. She had a 
firm hold on herself, and her nerves were under 
perfect control. 

“Then,—it seems to me the proper authorities 
are Mr. Gilray and his lawyer, and as they are at 
present in the library, across the hall,—will you 
see them?” 

41 Yes,—surely. Now ? ” 

“Now,” assented Lane, and rising, he opened 
the door, and led the way to the library. 

His tap brought an invitation to enter, and 
with a deep enjoyment of the impending dramatic 
situation, he opened the library door and ush¬ 
ered the girl inside. 

Carefully closing the door behind him, Lane 
awaited the first spoken words. 


264 


The Fourteenth Key 


They came from the girl, and they were merely, 

“Tom Pinney!” 

“ Yes,” Gilray said, looking at her pleasantly, 
but without enthusiasm. “ Miss Ward, isn’t it? ” 

“Lora Ward, as you knew me, but really 
Joyce Gilray,—as no one knows so well as your¬ 
self.” 

Gilray’s face took on a look of deep concern. 

“Look here,” he said, as he gazed at her 
intently, “where have you been since the 
accident-” 

“In the hospital, until just now.” Her face 
was white, and her eyes seemed to blaze with a 
strange, fierce anger, yet she said little. 

“They told me you were killed,” Gilray went 
on, still staring at her. 

“It was so reported,—I had a fearful fracture 
—oh, I can’t bear to think of it! And I had 
brain fever and amnesia and Lord knows what 
all! But I’m all right now—*—■” 

“You can’t be all right, Miss Ward, if you 
claim to be Joyce Gilray.” 

“But I am—and you know I am!” She grew 
hysterical now, and Gilray turned to Lane. 

“You see how it is, Mr. Lane. Miss Ward is 
not fit to be without a nurse’s care. I can ex¬ 
plain all about this hallucination that she is 
Joyce Gilray,—I understand it perfectly,—but 
ought we not to look after her welfare first?” 




A Newcomer 


265 


‘‘I’ll attend to my own welfare, thank you,” 
the spirited young visitor declared. “Now, Mr. 
Tom Pinney, if you can explain why you are 
here in my place and under my name, I’ll be 
glad to hear what you have to say.” 

“Very well, Miss Ward, then, since you ask it, 
I’ll tell, in the presence of Mr. Brett, my lawyer, 
and Mr. Lane the well-known detective, the 
whole story of our acquaintance,—shall I?” 

“Yes,” and the word was snapped out as if in 
utter exasperation. 

“Then, here it is, in as few words as possible,” 
Gilray began. 

“Mr. Brett knows, and I assume Mr. Lane 
knows, that I spent seven years in the business 
of the Moving Pictures. Part of the time I was 
merely a sort of assistant, and later I took part 
in the pictures, toward the last achieving a fairly 
good reputation as an athletic and specialty 
actor. My grandfather knew this, and though it 
displeased him, he overlooked it and the matter 
was referred to as seldom as possible while he 
was alive. 

* 1 1 had given up the profession and was about 
to start for the East,—I had been living in Cali¬ 
fornia,—when I came across my grandfather’s 
advertisement asking me to come to him. It 
gave me the greatest pleasure to do so and I 
started at once for New York. 





266 


The Fourteenth Key 


"On the train, I met several pleasant people 
with whom I became well acquainted, as one 
does on a transcontinental trip. Among the 
young people was Miss Lora Ward,”—he bowed 
to the girl, with a slight smile. 

"There were other young ladies, but if I may 
be allowed to say it, I liked Miss Ward the best 
of the lot, and we became good friends. I think 
Miss Ward will corroborate the statement that 
we were together for the better part of two or 
three afternoons. We had long talks and told 
one another of our past lives and of our future 
plans and hopes. I was full of glad anticipations 
of my new-found good fortune, and—here is the 
point, Brett, I told Miss Ward frankly and fully 
of all the circumstances of my position. She 
was good enough to be extremely interested, and 
I not only told her the whole story but I showed 
her the letters and papers of my mother’s that I 
had with me. I even showed her the letter from 
my grandfather, in which he asked me if I were 
a girl or a young man. And Miss Ward quite 
appreciated the joke that I had played on 
grandfather by refusing to tell him my sex until 
I arrived. You see, I knew he would rather wel¬ 
come a grandson than a granddaughter, so I 
played what seems to me now a silly jest, but at 
the time I thought it a good one.” 

"You are lying!” Lora Ward exclaimed, 


A Newcomer 


267 


“there's not a word of truth in all that! I am 
Joyce Gilray—I have always been Joyce Gilray 
—how dare you make up all that string of false¬ 
hoods-” 

She stopped from sheer exhaustion and excite¬ 
ment. Her face was white, her great eyes dark 
and stormy. Her hands were nervously twisting 
themselves around her gloves, which were drawn 
and strained in her clutch. 

Gilray regarded her solicitously. 

“May I not put you in the care of my house¬ 
keeper, Miss Ward?" he said, “and I will con¬ 
tinue my story to these capable and wise judges, 
who will hear later what you have to say?" 

“No, you may do nothing of the sort!" she 
flashed back, controlling herself by a supreme 
effort. “Go on, and finish, and then I will tell my 
side of the matter." 

“Very well," as she seemed quieter, Joyce 
went on. “As I was saying, I told Miss Ward 
everything about my early life, and my antici¬ 
pated future. She rejoiced with me in the 
thought of finding again my home and relatives. 
I told her all about Burr and Molly and every¬ 
thing I could think of. I was so full of the 
whole thing myself, and she was so sympathetic 
and cordially interested that I babbled on by the 
hour. 

“Then came the disaster. We were sitting 



268 


The Fourteenth Key 


together, Miss Ward, Miss Phelps, and myself, 
when the—the accident occurred. I remember 
only a terrific jolt and crash, and then I knew 
nothing more until I awoke forty-eight hours 
later in a hospital bed. 

“They kept me there a day or two after that, 
and then I was allowed to continue my journey. 
I lost all my luggage except one suitcase of 
clothing and the small satchel of my mother’s 
which I had, unconsciously, grasped and clung 
to, at the time of the crash. That is my story, 
—there is no more to add that you do not al¬ 
ready know. I came here, my grandfather recog¬ 
nised me as his own kin and I maintain my 
position. I accuse Miss Ward of being a pre¬ 
tender,—by the way, Miss Ward, did you think 
I was killed?” 

“They told me you were,” she said, in a whis¬ 
per, her eyes fixed, staring, on his face. 

“Ah, you see,” Gilray gave his old, crooked 
smile. “Miss Ward, thinking me dead, con¬ 
ceived this ingenious plan of personating Joyce 
Gilray. She remembered that my grandfather 
did not know my sex, and she hoped to put it 
over as his granddaughter! The scheme was 
not a bad one, and had I been killed, as she was 
told, it would most likely have succeeded.” 

“You have no papers,—no proofs?” Brett 
asked her. 


A Newcomer 


269 


The lawyer looked rather coldly at the girl. 
He did not believe in her at all, but he was not 
entirely unimpressed by her helpless, desolate 
air. She seemed irresolute,—uncertain whether 
to press her cause or give it up as a failure. On 
the whole she wore the air of one utterly sur¬ 
prised,—bewildered,—at the turn things had 
taken. 

Of course, Brett reasoned, she had supposed 
Gilray dead, and had thought the only difficulty 
would be to establish her own claims. Now she 
found she had that to do, and in addition must 
prove Gilray the impostor. 

Lorimer Lane looked on in silence. 

The situation interested him intensely, but 
as he had not been called on for his opinion or 
advice, he said nothing. Mentally, he was 
weighing the evidence and eagerly awaited the 
girl’s further explanation. 

“Of course, I have no proofs?” she cried, 
angrily. “He stole my satchel,—my mother’s 
satchel, that held all the papers and letters-” 

“Now, Miss Ward,” Joyce spoke quietly, but 
decidedly, “ I must protest. I’m willing to make 
all due allowance for you, remembering you have 
had brain fever and amnesia and are doubtless 
still in an irresponsible state mentally. I dare¬ 
say during these past weeks you have been lying 
in the hospital thinking out this plan, and have 



270 


The Fourteenth Key 


perfected it to your liking. Also, I give you the 
credit of thinking that since, as you were told, I 
was killed in the wreck, no harm would be done 
to any one by your impersonation of Helen 
Gilray’s child. I give you the credit of be¬ 
lieving that if you had known I escaped with 
my life you would never have tried this thing. 
But I did escape, and I am here, alive and 
well, so I can only now assume that you will 
withdraw your absurd claims and give up your 
scheme.” 

“ Aren’t you Tom Pinney?” she asked, her 
eyes fairly burning with excitement. “Aren’t 
you, or weren’t you, the movie actor, famous for 
lariat-throwing and Western films?” 

“Yes, that’s who I am. But I am also Joyce 
Gilray, and that is my real name. Tom Pinney 
was assumed for the stage only. My grand¬ 
father knew all about that. He hated the 
memory of it, and tried to forget it. And I be¬ 
lieve he did so, for Granfer had a conveniently 
short memory for anything he didn’t wish to 
remember.” 

“Indeed!” suddenly this strange girl seemed 
imbued with a new mood. She gave Gilray a 
sarcastic smile, and then, turning to Brett, said, 
“You’re the Winslow lawyer?” 

“Yes,” he said, rather taken aback at the 
sudden appeal to him. 


A Newcomer 271 

“I mean,” she went on, quietly, “were you 
Mr. Mark Winslow’s lawyer?” 

“I was, Miss Ward,” he returned, coldly 
[courteous of speech, “at the time of Mr. Wins¬ 
low’s death?” 

“How long had you been his lawyer? I mean, 
were you here at the advent of—Tom Pinney?” 

The slight pause before the name was accom¬ 
panied by that little smile of hers that seemed 
to annoy the lawyer, but mightily pleased the 
detective. 

Lane couldn’t believe this girl was honest in 
her claim, but he gave her the benefit of believ¬ 
ing that the whole plan was the result of her 
disordered brain and unbalanced mental condi¬ 
tion consequent upon her illness. 

Also, with his usual determination to learn 
anything he could of possible bearing on his case, 
he listened for further developments. 

And they came. 

“No,” Brett informed her, “I was not here 
when Mr. Gilray arrived, but I was soon after 
that employed by Mr. Winslow, and I am now 
in full charge of legal affairs here. So, Miss 
Ward, if you have any claims to make or any 
grievance to state, I am the one to hear it.” 

“Very well,” she was calm and self-possessed 
now, “then I state that I am Joyce Gilray, and I 
claim my rights.” 



272 


The Fourteenth Key 


"‘Accepting your speech at its face value/’ 
Brett said, in his most dignified legal manner, “I 
ask you for proofs or further statements to sub¬ 
stantiate your somewhat extraordinary claim.” 

“Proofs I cannot give you—as yet—but I will 
ask attention to my story.” 

Three graver or more attentive auditors could 
not have been imagined and the girl began. 

She had thrown her maltreated gloves to the 
floor, she had laid her little handbag on a table, 
and with her hands lightly clasped on her lap, she 
began, in a quiet, monotonous voice. 

“I am Joyce Gilray, the daughter of Helen 
Winslow and her husband Joyce Gilray. My 
mother’s second husband was named Ward, and 
she preferred to call me by that name. Also, as 
her second husband objected to the name Joyce, 
because it was the name of her first husband, my 
mother called me Lora. Therefore, I grew up 
with the name of Lora Ward.” 

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Gilray put in, 
firmly, “but I want to say that the second hus¬ 
band of Helen Gilray was named Ward, and to 
my mind, that is one of the points that made 
Miss Ward undertake this daring scheme. When 
I first learned her name on the train, I asked her 
of her family, and found there was no known 
connection between her and my mother’s second 
husband’s people.” 


A Newcomer 


273 


“That is not the truth,” said Lora Ward, 
excitedly. “I must ask to be allowed to tell my 
story without interruptions.” 

“I can’t see, Miss Ward,” Brett said, judi¬ 
cially, “why you should bar interruptions. 
You must remember you are making these 
statements,—on you rests the burden of proof. 
I cannot agree that you shall not be interrupted 
by pertinent questions or comments.” 

“Is everybody against me?” she cried, looking 
piteously about. “Will no one take my part?” 

“I will do so,” Lane said, “so far as it seems 
to me to be the truth. At any rate, I promise 
to see that you have fair play.” 

“No one refuses her that,” Brett said, quickly. 

44 By no means, ’ ’ Gilray added. 44 1 am anxious 
for Miss Ward to have fair play and a respectful 
hearing. I ask only that her story be judged by 
these two wise and fair-minded gentlemen. I’m 
sure that she herself cannot demand more than 
that.” 

“I do,” and Miss Ward spoke decidedly. “I 
demand a lawyer of my own,—one who can look 
out for my interests——” 

44 Oh, come now, Miss Ward,” and Gilray spoke 
kindly,“don’t engage a lawyer until you have 
some case for him. Your interests, if you have 
any, are quite safe in the hands of Mr. Brett or 
Mr. Lane,—either or tooth. Anyway tell your 


274 


The Fourteenth Key 


story, and if you need a lawyer, they will advise 
you to get one.” 

Both Brett and Lane smiled their acquies¬ 
cence and Lora Ward, though not seeming quite 
contented, resumed her tale. 

“Mr. Pinney’s story of the train meeting be¬ 
tween him and myself and of the train wreck ie 
all true,” she stated, “but it is he who is the im¬ 
postor, and not I. I am Joyce Gilray,—as I 
told you. I saw the advertisement that my grand¬ 
father put in the magazine and I answered it.” 

“When was this?” Brett inquired. 

“Oh, long ago—about—about—” she passed 
her hand across her forehead, with a dazed, 
uncertain air. 

“Don’t try too hard to think, Miss Ward,” 
said Joyce, and his tone was honestly solicitous. 
“You’re too recently out from under medical 
care to tax your brain too heavily. Never mind 
dates,—they can come later. Go on in your 
own way.” 

Lora Ward flashed him a glance of gratitude, 
and proceeded quietly. 

“Anyway, I answered my grandfather’s ad¬ 
vertisement and I had a letter from him and he 
asked me if I was a girl or a young man. And I 
thought it would be a good joke not to xell him 
until he saw me,—so I—so I—where was I— 
where was I?” 





A Newcomer 


275 

The girl’s eyes grew vacant-looking and her 
face went gray. 

“This won’t do,” Lorimer Lane said, de¬ 
cidedly. ‘ 1 Whoever she is, this young lady is not 
fit for this ordeal. She ought to be-” 

“Not at all! I’m all right!” Lora Ward in¬ 
sisted. “Excuse me if I’m a little confused— 
it’s all so different from what I thought it would 
be—I didn’t know Mr.—Mr. Pinney would be 
here-” 

“And you thought you could put it over with¬ 
out opposition,” Brett said. “Now, Mr. Gilray, 
if you’d give Miss Ward a glass of wine, say, 
and a biscuit, I daresay it would pick her up a 
little, and I think if possible, we want to hear 
the rest of this extraordinary story as soon as may 
be.” 

“Yes, yes,” and from a cupboard, Joyce 
brought a decanter of sherry and a biscuit jar. 

Eagerly, it seemed, the girl partook of a few 
sips of the wine and nibbled at the edge of a 
biscuit. 

“Well,” she went on, a little feverishly, but 
in low, even tones, “then I took the train for 
New York and on board I became acquainted 
with Mr. Pinney. I knew him at once because 
I had seen him in the Moving Pictures and we 
scraped acquaintance. I was glad to know him 
for he was gay and merry and we soon formed 




276 The Fourteenth Key 

quite a little circle of friends. But Mr. Pinney 
and I frequently chatted alone,—and I told him, 
—he didn’t tell me!—of the advertisement of 
Mr. Winslow and of my answer to it.” 

“ And you had the bag of tricks? ” asked Brett, 
watching her closely. 

“What—what do you mean?” again Miss 
Ward showed fear. 

“I mean you had the old bag that contained 
the letters and papers of Helen Gilray?” 

“Oh, of course I did! It was my mother’s 
bag-” 

“Describe it.” 

“It was about so long,” she measured with 
her unsteady hands, “and it was a dark purple 
or plum color,—a little faded.” 

“Good Lord, Brett, that doesn’t mean any¬ 
thing,” Gilray exclaimed; “of course she saw the 
bag, in my possession! I showed it to her, and 
all its contents—like a fool! But who would 
have supposed a sweet innocent looking girl 
would trump up this deep laid plot against me! 
I can only understand it by remembering her 
long illness from which, it’s plain to be seen, she 
has not yet recovered.” 

“Go on, Miss Ward,” Lane said, command- 
ingly. 

“That’s all,” she returned, dully. “I had the 
bag, I showed Mr. Pinney the letters and all, and 


A Newcomer 


277 


I told him all about my hopes and plans. Then, 
we were sitting together, Miss Phelps, Mr. 
Pinney and I, when the awful crash came. I 
know nothing more. I was picked up for dead, 
and it was more than a week before I was con¬ 
scious at all. And then only at intervals. I was 
critically ill for a month, and since then I’ve been 
convalescing.” 

“Where?” asked Brett. 

“In a small private hospital in Kansas City. 
The big hospital was full and I was sent 
away.” 

“But as to the time of the accident, Miss 
Ward,” Lane said, “where were you—you three?” 

“We were in Mr. Pinney’s section. We were 
sitting there because it was the shady side of the 
car. We were waiting for Miss Ray, and then 
we were going to have a game of Bridge.” 

Gilray nodded at this reminiscence, and Lane 
went on: 

“Where was the old bag, then?” 

“I had it,” Joyce spoke up. “We were in my 
seats and I never let the bag out of my immedi¬ 
ate vicinity. It was on the floor between my 
feet. I always kept it there.” 

Lora Ward stared at him. 

“No,” she said, “that is not so. The bag was 
there, on the floor, but it was in my possession,— 
in my charge-’ 



278 


The Fourteenth Key 


'‘'You had brought it in with you from your 
own sleeping-car section?” Lane asked. 

"Yes, I always carried it with me.” 

Gilray shrugged his shoulders. 

"You must take these statements for what 
you consider them worth,” he said. "Of course, 
Mr. Lane, you don’t know me as well as Mr. 
Brett does, but even judging as a disinterested 
observer, I fancy you see the weight of evidence 
in favor of my story rather than Miss Ward’s.” 

"You have nothing at all to substantiate your 
claim, Miss Ward?” Lane asked. 

"Nothing material,” she replied, "except— 
this.” Reaching for her handbag, she produced 
a cross of amethyst set in old, carved silver. 

"By Jove!” Gilray cried. "She had that 
made! I showed her my mother’s cross,—and 
she has contrived to get a duplicate some¬ 
where!” 

"Very well,” and the girl turned to him, her 
eyes blazing, "if you’re the rightful Joyce Gilray, 
tell me this,—what is, or where is, the Fourteenth 
Key?” 


CHAPTER XVI 


CLASHING CLAIMS 

From Gilray ’s blank countenance, it was 
plain to be seen he did not know anything about 
a fourteenth key, whatever it meant or signified. 

He said so frankly. 

* ‘ I never heard of any key in connection with 
these matters,” he said; “and,” he added, turn¬ 
ing to Brett, “I doubt if Miss Ward did, either. 
I think she is making up now, to try to trap me.” 

“What is the Fourteenth Key, Miss Ward?” 
Lane asked this, with a friendly smile at the 
girl. 

But she looked crestfallen. 

“I don't know,” she replied, dully. “I hoped 
Mr. Pinney knew-” 

“Look here, Miss Ward,” Gilray said, “I 
must ask you not to call me Pinney. I used that 
only as a stage name; my grandfather disliked 
the sound of it, and I have discarded it entirely. 
Please speak to me as Mr. Gilray.” 

His manner was courteous but cold, and his 
face was grave as he asked this concession. 

279 



280 The Fourteenth Key 

Lora Ward hesitated a moment, then she 
said, 

'‘I will call you Gilray until I can prove my 
own claim to the name and then I shall ask you 
to choose some other for yourself. For I shall 
prove this,’' she declared, turning to look at 
Lorimer Lane, and ignoring both Gilray and 
Brett. “If you will help me, Mr. Lane, all 
right. If you are against me, and on the side of 
this—this pretender/’ her eyes shot fire at 
Joyce, “why, then, I shall work out my own 
case, or get some other advocate.” 

“It isn’t a question of taking sides, Miss 
Ward,” Lane answered her; “I shall merely try 
to learn the truth about this very strange mix- 
up. As I see it now, you and Mr. Gilray traveled 
together on the train for several days. Assuming 
that one of you is Mark Winslow’s grandchild, 
we must further assume that that one told the 
other the whole story of the answered advertise¬ 
ment, the bag of papers and the amethyst cross. 
Then came the railroad wreck and you both 
escaped with your lives. But,—and here’s a 
point,—each of you thought the other was killed. 
Therefore,—as one of you must necessarily be a 
fraud,—you can’t both be telling the truth,—it 
would seem that the fraud was planned, be¬ 
lieving the rightful heir dead.” 

Lora Ward looked bewildered. It seemed as if 



Clashing Claims 281 

she had been unable to follow this logical de¬ 
duction from the known facts. 

But Gilray nodded his head in acquiescence. 

“Exactly right, Mr. Lane,” he said. “We 
can’t both be telling the truth,—we can’t both 
be the missing grandchild of Mark Winslow, so 
one of us is necessarily a fraud. And, naturally, 
the statements of either of us must be suspected, 
—or, at any rate, must be proved. I recall to 
your attention the fact that my grandfather in¬ 
vestigated my claims and was entirely satisfied 
as to my identity. As he is not here to pass on 
the claims of Miss Ward, they must be judged 
by some other authority. So, all I can say is, get 
any judges you like, ask any people you choose 
to decide the case, but let it be decided on its 
merits. I can’t recommend the judges, for I am 
an interested party. But I do ask to be repre¬ 
sented by my lawyer, and my grandfather’s 
lawyer, Mr. Brett here, and Miss Ward may have 
any assistance or authority she can procure. I 
am quite content to have my claims stand or fall 
at the decision of competent and disinterested 
judges. All I ask is fair play.” 

“That’s all I ask!” and Lora Ward’s eyes 
flashed at the speaker. “But how can I get fair 
play when nobody here knows me—nobody 
believes in me—I have no chance to prove my 
case.” 


282 


The Fourteenth Key 


“So far,” Lane said, thoughtfully, “this isn't 
a ‘case.’ Nobody is bringing legal action,—it 
hasn’t as yet assumed any such proportions. 
But it is a question to be decided by evidence 
and proof. It seems to me, Miss Ward, that 
you are the aggressive party, and you must 
substantiate your statements in some decisive 
way if they are to have any weight. If you can 
prove to some responsible lawyer that you have 
grounds for your claims then he can take the 
necessary steps to put you in your rightful place. 
If not,—I’m afraid your airy structure will fall 
to the floor.” 

“But I have no material evidence—Mr. Gil- 
ray hadn’t either-” 

“He has his mother’s papers,” Brett said, 
quickly. 

“My mother’s papers!” the girl cried. “He 
stole them from me-” 

“Now, look here,” Gilray spoke quietly but 
firmly, “I’m not going to stand that sort of talk. 
You are here, Miss Ward, to claim your right to 
my place. I deny your claim. Now, unless you 
can bring some authority that I cannot repudi¬ 
ate, I must ask you to cease annoying me. I will 
meet any valid argument you can bring forth, I 
will pass upon any evidence you can show, but I 
refuse to listen longer to the half hysterical 
harangues of a brain not yet entirely recovered 




Clashing Claims 283 

from a severe injury. I am sorry for you. I felt 
we had made friends on our train trip, but since 
you have taken on this new attitude,—since you 
have given way to this strange vagary,—I can¬ 
not, for the sake of my own self-respect, keep 
up our acquaintance. If you have anything 
further to communicate on the subject, I must 
ask you to refer it to my lawyer. It is not 
only silly, to my mind,—but painful.” 

“Very well,” and Lora Ward rose, “I will 
leave this house, but I am not through with the 
matter. I shall go to some place in the town 
where I can stay for a time, and see what steps I 
shall take next.” 

The words were brave enough, but the girl 
seemed to have lost her earlier energy. She was 
limp and apathetic. She had all the appearances 
of a loser in the fight, and not a good loser at 
that. 

With a weary sigh she turned to Lane, and 
said: 

“Perhaps you can direct me to a small, quiet 
boarding place.” 

“Certainly,” he said; “go to Mrs. Plum’s. 
She usually takes only men to board, but I’m 
sure, if I ask her, she’ll make an exception in 
your case. And she has a daughter near your 
own age. Come with me, Miss Ward,—I’ll take 
you there at once.” 


284 


The Fourteenth Key 


Gilray and Brett rose as the two went out, and 
gave courteous farewells. 

“I expected her,” Joyce said, when they were 
alone. “I told you I’d had two letters from her. 
It’s a mighty clever scheme, and she’s got nerve 
to try it on. But, you see, it’s all the result of 
her disordered brain. Couldn’t you see,—I 
could,—signs of hysteria and even unbalanced 
thought? She isn’t well yet, and I’ve small 
doubt she left the hospital before they wanted 
her to.” 

“ Hasn’t she any people of her own? ’ 

“I don’t think so. She was reticent about 
that sort of thing on the train,—and, of course, 
I didn’t question her. But she struck me as one 
of these modern girls who are afraid of nothing 
and dare anything. There’s nothing to do, is 
there, Brett, but await her next move? I’ve 
nothing to prove, nothing to substantiate. I’ve 
done all that, long ago. If she has anything of 
importance to bring up, let her do it, and then, 
we’ll see what to do next. Hang it all, Brett, I 
like the little thing,—she seems so plucky and 
self-reliant. But that silly obsession——” 

“It isn’t an obsession,” Brett objected, “it’s 
a deep laid plot——” 

“Maybe. But I can’t help thinking if she 
hadn’t had that brainstorm illness, she never 
would have tried this thing on. I believe that 



Clashing Claims 285 

as she lay there in the hospital, convalescing, 
the thought came to her, and she dallied with it, 
and fussed over it until she couldn’t get awav 
from it.” 

“Yes,” said Brett, “I suppose that’s what 
you meant by obsession. The idea took hold on 
her fancy, and she couldn’t shake it off. Well, 
you’ve nothing to fear from her-” 

1 * Fear! I should say not! But I’m truly sorry 
for her, and if she’d let up on her crazy scheme, 
I’d be glad to know her better and help her if I 
could. That Fourteenth Key business was 
funny. Do you suppose she made that up? ” 

“Read it in a story, more likely. But she had 
an amethyst cross pretty much like yours.” 

“Yes; that showed careful and skilful prepa¬ 
ration. Proved too, to my mind, the cunning of 
a disordered brain. But those things are easy 
enough to come by. I’ve often seen them in 
antique shops. They’re among the commonest 
of old-fashioned trinkets. Yes, I distinctly 
remember showing her my mother’s cross, and 
she examined it closely. Then she must have 
found one similar in general effect, and had the 
inscription put on it. She’s a smart one!” 

Meantime the “smart one” and Lorimer Lane 
were walking briskly along the main street of 
Willowvale. 




286 


The Fourteenth Key 


“I left my suitcase at the station,” Lora Ward 
said, “I can send for it, after I’m settled.” 

She was calm and collected now, she had 
thrown off all the effects of nervousness or 
hysteria. Apparently, out from under the influ¬ 
ence of Gilray’s presence, she had recovered her 
poise and was ready for whatever came. 

"I say,” she said, suddenly, “why can’t I go 
to see my cousin Burr?” 

Lane stared at her. This assumption of rela¬ 
tionship, after all that had passed, was, to say 
the least, surprising. 

“The very thing!” he said, recovering him¬ 
self quickly. “Let’s walk right round there 
now.” 

Arriving at their destination they were met 
first by Molly Winslow. 

“Good morning,” Lane said, “how do you do, 
Mrs. Winslow. This young lady is Miss Ward,— 
Miss Lora Ward.” 

He stood back, intently watching Molly Wins¬ 
low to see if she seemed impressed by any re¬ 
semblance in the young face. 

But there was no look of recognition and 
Molly greeted the girl pleasantly, though with a 
trace of inquiry in her glance at Lane. 

Then Burr appeared and he, too, was intro¬ 
duced. 

Of course, he showed no recognition, and at 


Clashing Claims 


287 


his polite but impersonal greeting, Lora Ward 
gave a little cry and said, '‘Oh, Aunt Molly,—• 
oh, Cousin Burr,—don’t you know me? I am 
Joyce Gilray,—I am the true child of Helen 
Winslow Gilray!” 

Burr stared with amazement, but Molly, al¬ 
ways quick of sympathy, said, 

“There, there, child,—sit down,—you are ill— 
Burr, get some water, quick!” 

For Lora Ward had staggered to a chair and 
fairly fell into it. 

Molly sat beside her, drawing off her gloves, 
taking off her hat, and loosening her coat at the 
throat. 

“She is—” began Lane, but Molly inter¬ 
rupted him. 

“Never mind who she is,—she’s ill, I tell you. 
I know the symptoms. Why, she ought to be 
in bed this minute!” 

With her arm round the girl, Molly gave her 
sips of the water Burr brought, and then Miss 
Ward suddenly sat upright, saying: “I’m all 
right now. Thank you for your kindness,” and 
she gave a grateful smile at her hostess. “Now, 
let me make myself clear,—” her red lips came 
together with a decided air, “I am Joyce Gilray, 
and that man in my grandfather’s house is an 
impostor. Get that ? ’ ’ 

Lane looked at her, curiously. This seemed a 


288 


The Fourteenth Key 


different personality from the one that had made 
the same statement to Gilray himself. 

Burr Winslow still stared at her with that 
strange air of bewilderment, but Molly quickly 
grasped her visitor’s two hands and gazed into 
her eyes. 

But after a long look, she said, “ Maybe you 
are, my dear, but I can’t see the slightest 
resemblance to Helen Winslow.” 

“ No,” the girl replied, “I am the image of my 
father,—Joyce Gilray.” 

“What are you talking about?” Burr said 
suddenly, not roughly, but with a strong note of 
command. “Tell me what you mean?” 

“What I say,” she returned, with no trace of 
fear or embarrassment, and with an effect of as¬ 
suredness that she had not shown in Gilray’s 
presence. 

Lane had an unpleasant sensation that she 
was playing the siren. This attitude, of course, 
would have been useless in Gilray’s case, but if 
she could charm Burr and get him on her side, it 
would be a distinct help. 

And for the first time, Lane realized that the 
girl was beautiful. At the other house she had 
been so frightened, so browbeaten by the attitude, 
if not by the words, of both Gilray and Brett, so 
unable to make good her claim, even in the 
slightest degree, that it had reacted on her ap- 


Clashing Claims 289 

pearance, and she had given the impression of a 
scared, beaten, hopeless, half-sick victim of an 
hysterical obsession. 

Now, in possession of her wits and fortified by 
what were unmistakably admiring glances from 
both Burr and Molly, the girl revived and re¬ 
gained her habitual demeanor, which was evi¬ 
dently that of a happy good nature. 

“I mean just what I say,” she repeated, and 
her smile was at Burr, though quickly trans¬ 
ferred to Molly. “I am Joyce Gilray,—and I 
want you”—this time the smile was engagingly 
coaxing, “to help me prove it.” 

Burr still refused to commit himself in words, 
but he came and sat down by the girl and pre¬ 
pared to listen. 

Molly, however, was loquacious. 

“For Heaven’s sake,” she began, “how can 
we help you? I wish you were Joyce Gilray,— 
Lord knows I’d rather see you there in the old 
house than Joyce himself—but,—well, explain 
yourself.” 

“I will!” and with flashing eyes and indignant 
frowns, interspersed with bewitching smiles, 
Lora Ward told her story. 

Lane listened intently. He was hearing it for 
the second time, but he quickly realized it was a 
very different hearing. The main statements 
were the same. The whole story of the train 


290 


The Fourteenth Key 

trip and the railroad disaster were told as he 
had already heard it, except that it was all from 
Lora Ward’s standpoint, without the interven¬ 
tion of Gilray’s denials and emendations. 

Molly listened, enthralled. Apparently she 
was all for the girl, and she nodded acquiescence 
with all her statements whether facts or opin¬ 
ions. Her own desire to talk had given way to 
her anxiety to hear, and she weighed every point 
with deepest interest. 

Burr, on the other hand, was frankly incredu¬ 
lous. 

He had made up his mind that Joyce was the 
rightful heir, and this new claimant seemed to 
him too palpably an adventuress to be taken 
seriously. Moreover, Joyce had told him there 
might be a fraudulent claim, put forward, and it 
would have to be met. 

“Miss Ward,” he said, speaking gently, for 
only a brute could have been harsh with the girl, 
“what have you in the way of evidence,—of 
credentials? ” 

“Only the Truth,” she'said, solemnly, and 
her deep violet eyes looked into Burr’s with a 
pathetic melancholy that made Lane anticipate 
Burr’s immediate and entire surrender. 

But Winslow held out. Had he not been 
warned by Gilray, he might have believed in this 
lovely creature, but after the warning, he felt 


Clashing Claims 291 

sure Miss Ward did not have the Truth to back 
her. 

"But you know, of course, that you can’t 
come here and demand your rights without some 
evidence to show that they are your rights.” 

"He—he stole my evidence—” the rose lips 
quivered, and the soft eyes filled with unshed 
tears. 

Surely, thought Lane to himself, Winslow will 
capitulate now! 

But Burr was still adamant. 

"I don’t get it, Miss Ward,” he said, judi¬ 
cially as a Chief Justice, "you come here and 
claim a position already filled. You bring no 
proofs that you are Mark Winslow’s grand¬ 
daughter, you don’t look like it, you don’t talk 
like it, and—pardon me,—you don’t act like it.” 

"How should I act?” she said, with a pretty 
glance of humility. 

"More like a descendant of the house of Wins¬ 
low and less like an impertinent adventuress.” 

Lane stared his amazement, Molly gave her 
son a look of deepest reproof, and Lora Ward,—• 
to the surprise of all, laughed outright. 

"Since my errand here is so unexpected by 
everybody, and since, apparently, it is not a 
welcome one to anybody, I am not baffled or de¬ 
terred by being repulsed. But, listen to this, 
Burr Winslow, I am an adventuress until my 



292 


The Fourteenth Key 


claim is admitted, until I am accepted as a 
descendant of the house of Winslow, and then, I 
can assure you, I shall behave as becomes my 
newly acquired dignity.'' Her rippling little 
laugh rang out, and her face was positively 
roguish. 

Could this be,—Lane marveled,—the girl 
who had been crushed and conquered by the 
words of Joyce Gilray? 

Molly Winslow looked up suddenly. 

“I believe you are what you claim," she said, 
though with an air of uncertainty. ‘ ‘ That laugh 
you just gave was like Helen Winslow used to 
laugh! I never felt as certain as the others did 
that Joyce is really the heir, and if there's any 
truth in your story at all,—it must be all true. 
Anyway, it can't be a hard thing to prove which 
of you is the true heir-" 

“ Excuse me, Mrs. Winslow," Lane put in, 
“it seems to me a very hard thing to prove-•" 

“Well, I don't care if it is," and Molly 
shrugged her shoulders, “I’ve taken a fancy to 
Miss Ward, and I invite her to stay here with me 
a few days, at least, and let me nurse her up a 
bit, and bring back the roses that I am sure 
belong on her cheeks." 

Burr said nothing, but his look of disapproval 
quite clearly showed that he did not second his 
mother's invitation. 



Clashing Claims 293 

Lora Ward saw this so plainly, that she said, a 
little diffidently:*''Who is head of the house?” 

"I am,” said Molly, even as Burr bowed 
slightly toward his mother, and then Lora 
seemed satisfied. 

"I accept your invitation, gladly and grate¬ 
fully,” she said; "if Mr. Winslow doesn’t want 
me here, I’m sorry,—but I must stay a day or 
two. It—it suits my plans.” 

"I’ll bet it does!” Lane said to himself, but 
aloud, he only said, "Then I’ll be going along. 
You won’t need a room at Mrs. Plum’s, Miss 
Ward? ” 

"No thank you, it suits me far better to stay 
here,” and a dazzling smile thanked him and 
dismissed him at once. 

Burr went away with the detective, leaving 
the two women together. 

"What’s it all about?” Burr asked, as soon as 
they were out of earshot of the house. '' Where’d 
she come from? Who is she? ” 

"You know as much as I do,” Lane replied. 
"She turned up at Gilray’s this morning and as I 
was there at the time, I was right in it.” 

"I don’t believe one word of her yarn,” Burr 
declared. "She’s a little beauty and she’s a 
shrewd, clever girl, but she can’t put it over. 
Why she has no proofs whatever,—no 
papers-” 



294 


The Fourteenth Key 


“But if Gilray stole her papers-” 

“Stole your grandmother! No, Mr. Lane, 
she doesn’t ring true.” 

“Did you ever hear of the Fourteenth Key, 
Mr. Winslow?” 

“Never. What is it the key to?” 

“The situation, the little lady pretends. But 
Gilray never heard of it, and if you didn’t, I 
rather think the girl made it up.” 

“Guess so. Anyway, I never heard of it. 
Lord knows I’d be glad if the heirship had been 
mine, as I had expected, but when I learned it 
wasn’t, I accepted the situation, and I’ve tried 
to be friends with Joyce. We haven’t hit it off 
terribly well, but that’s more because we’re not 
naturally congenial than because of any real 
ill-feeling. And having accepted Joyce’s right 
to the place, I don’t propose to be a party to his 
dethronement unless there’s some pretty strong 
proof,—and you say there’s none.” 

“None so far. I don’t know what she may 
dig up yet. But, as she’ll be at your home for a 
few days, you can size her up. Let me know 
how you feel about it all after a day or two. She 
can’t do anything right away, and I’m so busy 
with this murder business I can’t get mixed up 
with anything else just now.” 

“Anything new in the murder evidence?” 

“Nothing definite, but several vague hints 



Clashing Claims 295 

and rumors that I have to track down. Where 
are you going now? ” 

“Over to see Joyce. I want to know at first 
hand what he thinks about that girl.’* 

The two parted, and Burr went to the old 
Winslow house. 

He found Gilray expecting him, and Brett was 
still there. 

“I thought you’d come over, Burr,” Joyce 
said. “I want to tell you who blew in here this 
morning!” 

“The new claimant you were looking for,” 
Burr said, smiling. 

“Yes! how did you know?” 

“She’s over at our house now. Mother has 
adopted her.” 

“ No! You don’t mean it! ” 

“Not literally,—but mother felt sorry for the 
girl,—she seemed quite ill, and so asked her to 
remain a few days and be set on her feet again.” 

“So she worked your mother to that extent!” 
Gilray smiled. “Well, old chap, how did she 
strike you? Did you fall for her violet eyes and 
her rather—er—amazing yam?” 

“No, Joyce, I didn’t. I believe it’s partly 
made up and partly a sort of hallucination due 
to her long illness.” 

“By Jove, Burr, that’s just what I think. 
So does Brett, here. You see, on the train, I 


296 


The Fourteenth Key 


had told her the story of my affairs,—worse 
luck that I let myself rattle on so,—and as it was 
among the last of her recollections before she 
was knocked senseless in the wreck, it stayed in 
her brain and worked up into an obsession/’ 

“ Yes, I agree to all that. What are you going 
to do about it, Joyce?” 

'‘Nothing. I don’t have to do anything. If 
she starts anything I’ll defend my position to 
the last ditch, but otherwise there’s no step for 
me to take.” 

“No, that’s so. What about the Fourteenth 
Key? Ever hear of that?” 

“ Never. A figment of the young lady’s fancy, 
I suppose.” 

“Must be. Well, old chap, your way here is 
beset with thorns,—I’ll agree to that. Any¬ 
thing I can do—in any connection?” 

“No, Burr, nothing that I know of, but it’s 
good of you to offer.” 


CHAPTER XVII 


LORA GIVES IT UP 

A few days went by,—lovely October days, 
whose crisp air and bright sunshine did their 
part in restoring the health and strength of Lora 
Ward. Added to this was Molly Winslow’s 
kind care and attention, and the girl regained 
her mental balance as well as her physical well¬ 
being. 

Moreover, her demeanor changed, and from 
a nervous, uncertain temper, became sweet and 
sunny. This, however, only when by reason of 
other distractions she seemed to forget the 
errand that brought her to Willowvale. 

Molly had urged her to forget this for a time, 
saying that with returning health, she would be 
better able to cope with its difficulties. 

But Molly Winslow, in truth, wanted to study 
the girl, wanted to discover if, as she hoped, 
Lora was the true Joyce Gilray, and if, this 
being so, the usurper could be made to resign. 

But try as she would, Molly found little to 
bolster up her hopes. 


297 



298 The Fourteenth Key 

And Burr positively declined to agree with 
her. 

'‘I’ll tell you what it is, mother,” he said, one 
night, after Lora had been sent to bed, “you 
are letting your wishes run away with your 
judgment. I’ve looked over this thing from 
every possible viewpoint and, as you must see, 
one of the two is a fraud. Now, it can’t be 
Joyce,—he never could have come here and 
made up a lot of stuff that would fool Uncle 
Mark.” 

“Maybe Mark wasn’t fooled,—” Molly Win¬ 
slow said. 

“What! Do you mean he was a party to the 
deception? Well, you are biased in Lora’s 
favor-” 

“Aren’t you, Burr? Own up, now, aren’t you 
more than half in love with the girl?” 

“Exactly twice as much as half, mother.” 
Burr looked at her frankly. “And I mean to 
marry her, if she’ll have me. But this matter 
has to be settled first. I believe Joyce is the real 
grandchild, and I believe Lora is suffering from 
a hallucination that is part of her brain fever 
and amnesia that followed the train wreck. 
Also, I believe that when she entirely recovers 
her mental powers,—which she hasn’t done yet, 
by any means,—that she will realize the truth, 
and that her own past will come back to her.” 



299 


Lora Gives it Up 

“You think then, that all this story she tells 
is fixed in her brain from having heard Joyce 
tell it to her-” 

‘ 4 Exactly that, mother. And I want to get the 
best brain specialist in New York to examine her 
and to treat her case, as soon as she gets a little 
better physically.” 

“She’s getting better every day-” 

“Of course she is. It will all come out right, 
mother, but don’t hurry things too much. As 
to Uncle Mark’s death, I think Lane can take 
care of that, but I don’t for a minute believe 
Joyce is implicated. However, it would seem 
that Uncle Mark thought he would be, or why 
did he say, 'not Joyce,—tell Burr not Joyce!’ 
How could he have thought I’d suspect Joyce!’’ 

“Perhaps he thought the old professor would 
manage to have Joyce suspected-” 

“That’s it, mother! I do believe you’ve 
struck it! Uncle Mark knew the professor, of 
course, I’ve always thought that. Then, as he 
was dying, Uncle Mark feared the professor 
would put the blame on Joyce, and he tried 
with his last breath to prevent it! I’ll tell all 
this to Lane, but, as there’s been no breath 
of suspicion directed toward Joyce, I suppose 
the old professor, whoever or whatever he is, 
just concluded to lie low, and make no accusa¬ 
tions.” 


300 


The Fourteenth Key 


“What became of that old professor, Burr? 
How did he get away?” 

“Slipped out at one of the side doors or win¬ 
dows, I suppose. I don’t put too much faith in 
Jenks’ assertion that everything was locked up 
tightly. Why would it be, in the daytime? 
The various doors and windows over there are 
locked at night, but I’ve never known them to 
be carefully secured through the day. But the 
thing is to find that professor, as he called him¬ 
self,—I don’t see why Lane can’t do that—if 
he’s any good at all as a detective.” 

“Well, Burr, as you say, Lane and the police 
can look after the murder mystery. I’m much 
more interested in the matter of Lora. I’ve 
come to love that girl like a daughter, and I 
hope to goodness she will marry you. But I 
also hope she is the granddaughter of Mark and 
the rightful heir.” 

“She isn’t,” Burr smiled at his mother. “It’s 
only your wish that makes you even imagine 
such a possibility.” 

“But, Burr, she laughs just as Helen used 


“Oh, mother, what an argument!” 

“And another thing, Burr, she sets her jaw, 
when she is determined, for all the world like 
Mark used to do-” 


“Now, mother, don’t be foolish. To say that 




301 


Lora Gives it Up 

Lora’s adorable little mouth could possibly look 
like Uncle Mark’s iron jaw—is a little too 
much?” 

"It’s true all the same,” Molly persisted, and 
Burr laughed indulgently at her. 

But as Lora Ward grew stronger and more 
composed of manner, so she became more deter¬ 
mined to assert her rights to the Winslow in¬ 
heritance. 

"Wait a little,” Burr begged her, "you’re not 
well yet, and you can’t hold your own in an 
argument. You can’t do yourself justice.” 

"No,” the girl said, with an obstinate nod 
of her head, "I can’t. That’s why I want a 
lawyer, to get justice done for me. I can pay 
him. I’ve money enough, and I’m going to 
have him.” 

Unknown to the others she had written for 
Martin Barry to come to see her. 

When he came, she greeted him pleasantly, 
and at once took up the matter in hand. 

Burr and Molly were both present, but Lora 
paid no attention to them. 

"Mr. Barry,” she said, "I want you to take 
up this case for me. That is, I want you to 
hear all I have to say, and then, if you believe 
in my claims I want you to press them. I don’t 
know the legal terms, but—well, anyway, you’ll 
advise me, won’t you?” 


302 


The Fourteenth Key 


Barry willingly agreed to listen, and the two 
Winslows were also an attentive audience. 

But the story Lora told was in no way dif¬ 
ferent from the one she had told in Joyce Gil- 
ray’s presence, and though Molly was manifestly 
disappointed, Burr was not at all surprised. 

He was positive that the whole thing was an 
illusion of Lora’s brain and that, perhaps only 
after a long time, she would get over it. He 
refused to let himself think that it might be a 
permanent hallucination, and was only waiting 
for the time when he could get the advice of a 
brain specialist on the case. 

Moreover, as Lora went on and on with her 
recital, her statements became a trifle vagueT 
she repeated herself now and then, and in many 
ways showed evidences of a mentality not quite 
under control. 

Barry listened carefully and respectfully. He 
had reason to do so. But he was disappointed. 
He had hoped for some positive arguments, 
some undeniable facts that would lead to a 
possible consideration of Lora as the real Joyce 
Gilray. 

As he saw no signs of this, he tried to help 
matters along by saying: 

“You see, Miss Ward, I am only too anxious 
to believe your story. I have hoped for some¬ 
thing like this to turn up.” 


Lora Gives it Up 303 

The two Winslows stared in astonishment, 
and the lawyer went on: 

"Yes, I think I am violating no confidence 
when I say that I am not at all certain that 
Mark Winslow himself believed implicitly in 
the identity of his grandson.” 

"What do you mean, Barry?” Burr asked, 
very gravely. 

" It may be only a notion on my part,” Barry 
weighed his words carefully, "but I always felt 
that Mr. Winslow accepted young Gilray with¬ 
out sufficient investigation of his claims.” 

"But Joyce had all the papers and-” 

‘I know,” Barry returned, "but as you 
remember, I was discharged from Mr. Winslow’s 
service because I cast a doubt on Joyce’s iden¬ 
tity-” 

"I know,” Burr said, thoughtfully, "but that 
doesn’t prove anything-” 

"No, except this. You see Mr. Winslow 
wasn’t certain—or said he wasn’t, whether his 
grandchild was a boy or a girl. But he wanted 
a boy,—that I know. So, when Joyce Gilray 
appeared, Mr. Winslow was so glad and so 
relieved to find that he was not a girl that he 
welcomed him with open arms, and with no 
questions. Had it been a girl who arrived that 
day, I fancy there would have been far more 
investigation.” 



304 


The Fourteenth Key 


“I know,” Molly said, “that Mark wanted a 
grandson. He would have welcomed a grand¬ 
daughter with much less enthusiasm,—he said 
as much to me before Joyce came.” 

“Also, Uncle Mark told me that he believed 
Helen's child was a boy,’’ Burr said. ‘ ‘ But that's 
beside the matter. Why can't we find the letters 
Uncle Mark had from his daughter-” 

“The Fourteenth Key—” Lora Ward said, in 
a strange, faraway sort of voice. 

Burr gave his mother a significant glance, and 
Molly rose and urged the girl gently from theroom. 

“It's no use, Barry," Burr said to the lawyer. 
“Miss Ward is not responsible, as you can see 
for yourself. We're going to put her in charge 
of a brain specialist, as soon as possible. As 
to this matter in hand, I think she has mixed 
up the story Joyce told her, with some book or 
story she read about the Fourteenth Key, and 
the two have obsessed her brain.” 

“It may be,” Barry looked thoughtful, “but 
when she began to talk today she was perfectly 
rational-" 

“She's always rational—it isn’t that,—it's 
this kink in her mind, this hallucination that she 
is Joyce Gilray—of course you must see that 
she would never have thought of it at all only 
that Joyce told her that he hadn't told his 
grandfather what his sex was, as a sort of joke 




305 


Lora Gives it Up 

on the old man. This, I hold, clung to Lora’s 
memory, and when she was told that Joyce was 
dead-” 

“That’s just it, Mr. Winslow,” Barry spoke 
sternly now, “if she hadn’t thought Joyce 
Gilray was dead, she never would have under¬ 
taken this imposition. But the fact that she 
did think him dead, and then tried on the impos¬ 
ture, proves not a disordered mind, but a clever 
and designing fraud.” 

“I suppose I ought not to blame you, Barry, 
for thinking that,—for to you, it must look that 
way. But, knowing the girl as I do,-” 

“And feeling toward her the way you do—” 
Barry looked knowing. 

“Yes,” Burr agreed, quietly, “yes, that, too, 
—I am sure you are mistaken. And, so, I ask 
of you, Barry, to take over the case as my 
lawyer,—I will retain you,—and all you need 
do, is to watch Miss Ward and study her, and 
then, draw your own conclusions. But not 
hastily. Take plenty of time.” 

Barry agreed to this, for though he had spoken 
in earnest, he was mystified by the girl’s actions 
and wanted to study her further. 

In pursuance of his investigation Barry went 
to see Joyce Gilray. That young man greeted 
him pleasantly, with no sign of rancor because 
of past unpleasantness. 





3°6 


The Fourteenth Key 


“Well, Barry/’ he said, “what brings you 
here? Sit down and have a cigar. Don’t think 
because I am in my grandfather’s chair, I hold 
any of his animosities. Indeed, I’d be glad to 
have you as my legal man, but I seemed to 
inherit Brett along with the rest of Granfer’s 
belongings.” 

Barry, pleased at this easy opening, fell in 
with Gilray’s mood, and lighted a cigar as he 
took the offered seat. 

“All right, Gilray,” he said, “I’ll come right 
to the point, then. I’m rather by way of check¬ 
ing up this strange story the young lady tells, 
—Miss Ward, you know.” 

“Yes, I know,” Joyce spoke shortly. “But 
I think, Barry, I’ll turn you over to Brett to 
discuss that. Why should I be bothered with 
the vagaries of a disordered brain?” 

“All right, I’ll see Brett, too. But just answer 
me a few questions, it can’t bother you much. 
Let me see your amethyst cross, will you?” 

“I would, gladly, but I’ve not the slightest 
idea where it is. Grandfather took it from me, 
and kept it. I never saw it again. Also, he 
took all the papers and things I brought of my 
mother’s, and where he hid them, I don’t 
know, but I can’t find them. If you know where 
to look, I wish to Heaven you’d find them.” 

Gilray looked earnestly at Barry, and the 


307 


Lora Gives it Up 

latter glanced about the library, where they sat. 

“I’ve no idea where to look,” he returned, 
“but I do know that your grandfather had a 
secret hiding place, where he kept old papers. 
One day I came in here just as he turned away 
from the mantel, and his angry perturbation 
made me sure I had almost come upon him as 
he was closing some secret panel or cupboard. 
I never mentioned it to him, of course, and I 
never saw anything of the sort again, but if 
there is a secret hiding place,—you ought to 
know of it.” 

“Of course I ought,”said Gilray and he looked 
around the walls of the old room. “Above the 
mantel, did you say?” 

“I can’t say that,—I only say he was turning 
away from the mantel as I entered.—I say, Gil¬ 
ray, can’t the Fourteenth Key open a secret 
cupboard-” 

Gilray laughed. “That fourteenth key is part 
of that girl’s dream,” he said. “If there was 
any such key I’d know it by now. I’ve all my 
grandfather’s keys, and though they’re not 
numbered consecutively, some of them have 
numbered tags, and there are two with the 
number fourteen on. But they open most 
prosaic places,—one a linen closet on the third 
floor and the other an unused coat closet in the 
lower hall. So there goes that hope.” 



3°8 


The Fourteenth Key 


Barry nodded, and the two men stared hard 
at the mantel and the surrounding walls. 

They saw nothing indicative. The walls of 
the room were not papered but were painted a 
medium gray, and paneled, each panel being 
outlined by a narrow Grecian border of gold. 

There were but two or three pictures, and one 
mirror and for the rest the walls were lined 
with bookshelves or the panels were pierced by 
a door or window. 

“ Small chance for a secret cupboard in these 
walls/’ Joyce said, as he scanned them anew. 
“And I’ve hunted them all over,—I’ve looked 
for that secret cupboard ever since grandfather 
died. I can’t find it.” 

“Did you try over the mantel?” 

“Yes, of course,” but Joyce rose and passed 
his hand over the wall in question. “You see, 
there’s nothing like a keyhole, or even a knob 
or ornament that might conceal one,” he de¬ 
clared as they both looked at the plain square of 
wall space above the old carved wooden mantel. 
The gray painted surface was smooth and plain, 
the Greek border outlined it, and in the center 
of it hung the mirror. 

Stepping up on a chair, Joyce lifted the mirror 
down, but behind it was no break or crack in the 
wall surface. 

“Nothing doing,” he said, as he rehung the 


309 


Lora Gives it Up 

mirror. “It isn’t dusty, either, for I’ve hunted 
that place all over lately. What the fourteenth 
key may or can unlock, I don’t know, but it’s 
quite evidently nothing in this room.” 

“Yet those papers are in this room, I’m sure,” 
Barry insisted. “And you ought to find them, 
Gilray, if you expect to substantiate your 
claims.” 

The young man stared at him. 

“Haveyou lost your mind, Barry?” he asked. 
“I’ve no call to substantiate claims,—that’s all 
past history. Do you suppose for a minute I’m 
going to pay the slightest attention to this fool 
girl? Not much I’m not! Her silly imposture 
wouldn’t fool an idiot baby! So, if you’re 
furthering her cause, go right ahead—don’t 
mind me. You won’t bother me a bit. But I 
do want to find that cupboard for other reasons. 
Not because my position here is uncertain or in 
danger.” 

It was at this juncture that Lorimer Lane 
appeared. 

“Good morning,” he said, as he was admitted. 
“You two in cahoots? Will wonders never 
cease? But don’t let me interrupt you, I’m here 
for a word or two with Jenks. No objections, 
Mr. Gilray?” 

“Not the slightest. Go as far as you like.” 

Armed with this permission, Lane went to 



3io 


The Fourteenth Key 


find Jenks, and took him into the pantry and 
closed the door. 

“Now, Jenks/’ he said, “talk quickly. I’ve 
no time to waste. When I was here a few days 
ago, you said you had seen in the Moving Pic¬ 
ture that young woman who was found dead on 
the porch here. Where and in what picture did 
you see her?” 

“It was long ago, Mr. Lane, and I don’t 
rightly remember the picture. But it was a 
name something like ‘The Prairie Flower’ only 
that isn’t exactly it, either. But something like 
that.” 

“How long ago?” 

“Like two years, I should say,—maybe not 
quite so long. But I know it was that same girl.” 

“Why didn’t you tell anybody this?” 

“Nobody asked me, and I didn’t think it 
mattered to any one. And to tell you the truth, 
sir, I was afraid it might get the master into 
some—some unpleasant scrape ” 

“Afraid Mr. Winslow was mixed up with a 
Moving Picture actress-” 

“Yes, sir,—just that. I know it sounds funny 
—but all the same,—well, I lived with Mr. 
Winslow a long time—and I knew things about 
him that no one else did-” 

“That will do, Jenks. Don’t tell them unless 
you are asked. Now, keep this matter to your- 





Lora Gives it Up 311 

self, and rest assured no blot or blur will fall 
on Mr. Winslow’s name through me.” 

Lane went off and without seeing Gilray again, 
he started for New York City. 

Barry, having learned all he could from Gilray 
went back to the Winslow home to report. 

"It’s a sort of deadlock,” he said. "Gilray is 
so frank and fearless, it seems impossible to 
think of him as other than he claims. Truly, 
the weight of the evidence is on his side. Yet, 
this thing bothers me. The joke played on 
Mark Winslow.” 

"What do you mean?” asked Burr. 

"Only, that it’s a girl’s trick. I can’t imagine 
a man putting up that silly joke. But if the 
grandchild was a girl, she would be quite likely 
to think it funny to keep her grandfather guess¬ 
ing. A man would never think of such a thing.” 

"I agree to that, in principle,” Burr said, "and 
neither you nor I would do it,—but that doesn’t 
prove that no man would. Besides, Joyce said 
he did do it-” 

"Of course he’d have to say so—whether he 
did or not!” Barry looked amazed at Burr’s 
stupidity. "I’m trying to turn it into a proof 
of Miss Ward’s claim.” 

"Oh, I can’t think much of her claim,” Bun- 
said, wearily. "Here’s another thing. You 
know that first letter Mr. Winslow received 




312 


The Fourteenth Key 


from his grandchild was signed Joyce Gilray in a 
most unmistakable man’s hand. Where does 
that leave Miss Ward?” 

“I’ll explain that,” and Lora Ward walked 
into the room where the two men were. 

Evidently she was feeling better and seemed 
quite herself. Her cheeks glowed with a natural 
rose color, and her eyes were both clear and 
bright. 

Burr looked at her solicitously; he knew her 
symptoms well by now, and he saw she was 
quite capable of coherent talk, and evidently 
clear thought. 

He was ready for her to explain herself in 
every possible way, but watchful and ready to 
take her back to her room if she showed the 
least sign of a wandering mind. 

But it was with an air of complete self pos¬ 
session that she came in and took a chair that 
Burr placed for her near himself. 

“As to the signature,” she said, quietly, “I 
wrote the letter on my own type writer, and 
was about to sign it, when I had a misgiving 
that my grandfather would rather have a grand¬ 
son than a granddaughter. So, I asked a man 
I knew well, a good friend of mine, to sign my 
name for me. He did it readily, and never gave 
the matter another thought. Then, when my 
grandfather’s letter came and asked whether I 


313 


Lora Gives it Up 

was a girl or boy,—I—I felt sure he wanted me 
to be a boy—a man,—and I signed my name in 
a queer sort of printing that would pass for 
either. You see, I—I thought if I could get 
here, and could talk to my grandfather, he— 
he wouldn't so much mind my being a girl, and 
I might make good—■—’’ 

“Why were you so sure your grandfather 
wanted you to be a boy? ” Barry asked, watch¬ 
ing her closely. 

Lora Ward hesitated, then she said, slowly: 

“For two reasons. One, because on general 
principles every man wants an heir,—and, too, 
because my mother had often told me that her 
father wished she had been a boy." 

The explanation sounded plausible, but it 
was impaired by the speaker’s attitude. She 
looked fearfully from one to the other of the 
men as if doubting their belief in her statements. 
She bit her lip and tears came to her eyes as she 
looked helplessly at Burr. 

With a quick gesture he flung his arm around 
her, and drew her to himself. 

“Never mind, sweetheart," he said, oblivious 
of Barry’s presence. “It’s all right. Don’t say 
anything more." 

“You don’t believe me!" she said brokenly, 
sobbing in Burr’s arms. “You d—don’t believe 
me, do you?" 





3H 


The Fourteenth Key 


“No,” Barry said, slowly, “we don’t, Miss 
Ward,—we can’t.” 

“Then,” and Lora Ward raised her head from 
Burr’s shoulder, drew her hand swiftly across 
her eyes, and with a return of her decided man¬ 
ner, said: “then, I own up—I confess—I am 
not Mark Winslow’s grandchild at all! I am— 
I am—” and as Burr drew her closer, she whis¬ 
pered so low that only he could hear her,—“I am 
only Burr’s sweetheart!” 

“Go, please,” said Burr, looking over her 
shoulder at Barry. And Barry went. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


THE TRUTH AT LAST 

Lorimer Lane had his work cut out for him. 

It is not an easy matter to trace up any picture 
that has not been shown for a year or so, but by 
visiting several bureaus and many offices, Lane 
at last found himself on track of a picture called 
“The Blossom of the Prairie.” 

By dint of much coaxing and a goodly outlay 
of money he managed to have the film shown to 
him, and noted the name of the principal actress 
in it. 

It did not surprise him to see that in general 
effects she resembled the description of the 
young woman found dead on the Winslow porch, 
and though he did not know just where this 
search was leading him, Lane persevered. 

He discovered her name was Maisie Merton 
and he found out what films she had starred in 
lately. 

One of these, called “Primitive Passions” 
greatly interested him, and learning where it 
was to be found, he hastened off to demand a 


315 





316 


The Fourteenth Key 


showing of it. In this he succeeded, and im¬ 
mediately thereafter hurried back to Willow- 
vale. 

Here he went at once to his room at Mrs. 
Plum's and sat a long time alone, thinking things 
out. 

Then he sent for Poppy and asked her a lot of 
questions about the absent Professor Curran 
and his habits. 

'‘Yes sir," the girl said, uncertainly as some of 
the questions were beyond her knowledge, “but 
Sam would know more about all that than I do. 
Sam Robbins, you know,—he's home now, Mr. 
Lane, shall I call him in?" 

“Do," said Lane, and then transferred his 
inquiries to the young man while Poppy listened 
attentively. 

“It's this way, Mr. Robbins," Lane said; 
“I've been to New York and I think I am on 
the trail of the man who called himself Professor 
Curran. Now I want to know some details 
about his manners and behavior. As we have 
all agreed I think he's the man who killed old 
Mr. Winslow, and if so we must find him. Now, 
try to remember all you can about him. Had 
he any—you know, any little ways or tricks of 
personality? Any peculiarity of speech or 
manners-" 

“He hadn't any manners, Mr. Lane," Sam 



The Truth at Last 


* 317 


said, thoughtfully. "Not what I call manners. 
I mean he was—well, not exactly boorish, but 
far from refined or conventional in his ways.” 

"Rough, curt—in conversation?” Lane 
watched the other closely. 

"No, not that. But-” 

"Now, look here,” Poppy said, "I’ve no 
interest in the old professor, goodness knows,— 
but I do like to see justice done. And I never 
saw old man Curran except at the table, and 
then he was across the room, but I’ll say his 
table manners were very good indeed.” 

"Yes, they were,” Robbins assented. "Oh, 
I know that sounds contradictory, but here’s 
how it was, Mr. Lane. He’d be eating away as 
pretty as pie, then all of a sudden, he’d do some 
crude thing,-” 

"Eat with his knife?” 

"No, not so bad as that, but he’d stick his 
elbows out, or drink noisily or some such in¬ 
admissible thing. And then, he’d be just the 
other way—why, I’ve seen him fling his napkin 
on the table, all crumpled up, instead of folding 
it, as we have to do in a boarding-house. And 
he always takes salt on the side of his plate, 
instead of sprinkling it over his food as the rest 
of us do.” 

"Then you mean if that man was in disguise, 
as I think he may have been, you mean he some- 





318 


The Fourteenth Key 


times was very careful to be correct, and at 
other times forgot all about that and reverted 
to his natural careless ways.” 

“Either that,” Robbins returned, “or he was 
naturally refined, and assumed his boorish 
manners as his disguise.” 

“Yes,” Lane said, “it may have been either 
way.” 

“He was no gentleman,” Poppy declared. 
“Not a real aristocrat,—I can tell you that.” 

“You can’t tell that,” Lane reminded her, “if 
the man was trying to deceive you as to his 
personality.” 

“You bet I can!” Poppy insisted. “I guess 
I’ve taken care of the rooms in this house long 
enough to know how a gentleman keeps his 
room. Nothing special, for a gentleman may 
be awful untidy in his habits, but it’s a different 
kind of carelessness. Why, I’ve known a man 
to make a room look like a whirlwind struck it, 
just by having a bath, and yet, a man who keeps 
things quite spick and span may have the crud¬ 
est ideas about cleanliness—oh, well, it isn’t 
a subject to talk about,” the girl flushed a little, 
but looked very much in earnest, “only I can 
tell you that old professor was no aristocrat, 
that he wasn’t! ” 

“Thank you, Miss Plum, you’ve helped me 
more than you know. I must find this Curran 


The Truth at Last 


319 


and the fuller description of him I can get the 
better for my search. I think I’ll look over his 
room once more.” 

Lane went to the room which was still just as 
the professor left it and carefully noted the 
books. As he had already learned the scientific 
books were of an elementary nature, but as he 
now pored over them he noted how worn and 
used they were. Leaves were turned down here 
and there, some at the top of the page and some 
turned up from the bottom, as if to mark a 
special paragraph. 

The detective scanned these carefully, calling 
the attention of the others to the worn and 
soiled volumes, which might easily have been 
bought at a second-hand book dealer’s. 

“I can’t help feeling that the professor was 
not a professor,” Lane said, frowning at the 
books. “But I must be sure. If he was, all my 
theories are wrong. If he was not,—then he 
was the most meticulously careful fraud I can 
imagine. See, these notebooks, filled with 
geological data,—the man must have been a 
geologist-” 

“I don’t believe he was,” Robbins said, “for 
one night at the table I asked him a few ques¬ 
tions about the origin of the earth and that sort 
of thing and he was absolutely blank on the 
subject.” 



320 


The Fourteenth Key 


“But that belongs to archaeology and biology 
and lots of things outside of ordinary geology. 
Old Curran didn’t profess to be a modem scien¬ 
tist, did he?” 

“No,” Poppy said, scornfully, “he was a 
doddering old thing,—he didn’t know anything 
modem. If I didn’t know he shaved I should 
never have thought of him as being disguised. 
But why, in the name of common sense would 
a man shave and then clap on those silly old 
whiskers?” 

“If he murdered Mr. Winslow, that all ex¬ 
plains itself, doesn’t it?” Lane asked. “And 
knowing all we do, of his visit at the Winslow 
house, his mysterious disappearance and the 
finding of Mr. Winslow’s dead body, what can 
we assume except that Curran was the mur¬ 
derer?” 

“Of course he was,” Robbins said, thought¬ 
fully, “and of course you’ll never see him in 
Willowvale again. 

“Surely not,” Lane agreed. “Professor Cur¬ 
ran made a successful getaway. I never expect 
to see him again-” 

“You’re not going to find him!” Poppy 
exclaimed, “how did he get away so cleverly?” 

“It wasn’t so difficult, Miss Plum. You see, 
nobody knew of Mr. Winslow’s death,—I mean 
at the time he was killed, and the murderer had 


The Truth at Last 


321 


ample time to disappear quietly and unnoticed.” 

“But how did he do it—-how did he make his 
exit? ” Poppy looked puzzled. 

“There were any number of ways—” Robbins 
assured her, “that big house has lots of exits, 
and I don’t believe they were as securely fastened 
as Jenks asserts. You see, anybody could get 
out, and shut a door behind him, and if it was 
a spring catch, it would fasten itself.” 

“And then, you mean, the professor walked 
away, and went to the station and took a train 
out of town, without any one seeing him?” the 
girl looked incredulous. 

“Remember, Poppy,” Robbins went on, “no¬ 
body was interested in the old man then. No¬ 
body suspected him of crime or cared what he 
did or where he went.” 

“True enough, Mr. Robbins,” Lane said. 
“Now I’ve learned all I can here, I’ll be running 
off again. Good-by, for now.” 

The detective walked rather hurriedly across 
the town to Burr Winslow’s home. 

“Well,” he said, as he entered, “I’ve found 
out who killed your Uncle, Mr. Winslow.” 

“Professor Curran?” 

“Yes, exactly, Professor Curran.” 

“I can’t say that’s news,” Burr smiled, “but 
can you get your man? ” 

“Oh, I think so, later on. Just now, I’m 



322 


The Fourteenth Key 


anxious to settle up this Joyce Gilray question. 
Did it ever occur to you that Miss Ward is the 
real Joyce Gilray after all? ,, 

“But she says she isn't,” Burr objected. 

“Yes, exactly, and that’s how I know she is. 
That, and a few other arguments in her favor. 
How is she just now? Able to stand some 
excitement?” 

“Oh, I think so,—I’ll call her.” 

Burr left the room and returned with his 
mother and Lora. The girl seemed calm and 
happy,—Lane, looking at her closely, decided 
she was in better health than he had yet seen her. 

“Miss Ward,” he said, suddenly, “why did 
you abandon your plan of establishing your 
identity as Joyce Gilray?” 

“For a reason that will doubtless seem foolish 
to you,” she said, speaking very seriously. 
“But the truth is, Mr. Lane, when I became 
convinced that my grandfather preferred a man 
for an heir, and that he had unquestioningly 
accepted the man I knew as Tom Pinney, and 
had voluntarily made a will in his favor, I felt 
conscience stricken at the thought of usurping 
his place.” 

“But that is absurd, Miss Ward!” Lane 
exclaimed, “if you are really the heir-” 

“But Mr. Winslow wanted a grandson not a 
granddaughter,—and too, Mr. Lane, it was too 



The Truth at Last 


323 

hard work—whenever I tried, I went all to 

pieces,—and Burr said-” 

“Yes, Lane,” Burr put in, “Miss Ward and 
I are engaged to be married, and I fear for her 
to carry the fight any further. It always breaks 
her all up, and we’d rather live quietly and in 
peace without-” 

“But it’s too ridiculous,” Lane declared, 
“that is, if Miss Ward is the Winslow grandchild 
—and that is what I propose to find out pretty 
quick. Miss Ward, can you go through an inter¬ 
view with Mr. Gilray right now? Will you go 

with me over to the Winslow house-” 

“Can Burr go, too?” 

“Yes, of course, and Mrs. Winslow,—I want 
you all.” 

The party set off, Lane calling up one or two 
telephone numbers while the others were putting 
on their wraps, and reaching the old Winslow 

home, Lane asked to see Joyce Gilray- 

That young man received them in gay spirits, 
for, as he told them his lawyer had informed 
him of Miss Ward’s withdrawal from the con¬ 
test, and there was to be no further dispute of 
his rights as the Winslow heir. 

“But I want to make it up to you in some 
degree,” he added to Lora, who sat quietly 

listening to him. “I want to give you-” 

“Wait a moment, Mr. Gilray,” Lane said, 



3 2 4 


The Fourteenth Key 


“I have a few final questions to put before this 
matter can be considered entirely settled.'’ 

“Oh, you have," and Gilray’s jocular manner 
was tinged with a certain nervousness, “then, 
if it's serious, I think I’ll telephone for my 
lawyer,—he’s entitled to be in on these confabs." 

“He surely is," agreed Lane, and he waited 
while Joyce called Brett to him by telephone. 

Meantime Barry had arrived, and there was 
a suppressed air of excitement about them all. 

“Only a few questions," Lane said, quietly, 
and then he proceeded to fire a perfect volley of 
interrogation at both Gilray and Lora Ward. 

They were mostly regarding the early days of 
the true Joyce Gilray whichever of the present 
claimants could rightfully demand that title. 

Molly listened in amazement, Burr was solici¬ 
tous concerning Lora, but Miss Ward herself 
and Joyce Gilray were both ready with their 
answers and both were amazingly alike in their 
statements. 

Lane was disappointed,—he had hoped to 
trip up Joyce Gilray and prove Lora the real 
grandchild. But, strangely enough, there was 
no hesitation on the part of either, and to Molly’s 
knowledge the answers they gave were equally 
true and showed on the part of both equal 
familiarity with the subject. The questions 
referred to the appearance of Helen Winslow, 


The Truth at Last 


325 


of Joyce Gilray, Senior, of traits and reminis¬ 
cences of both parents,—and were answered 
with ease and truth by both girl and man. 

Lane was discouraged, he had pinned his faith 
on Gilray’s breaking down during this grilling, 
and he had much ready to say afterward. 

The two lawyers came in, for Lane had tele¬ 
phoned Barry, and they took seats in silence as 
matters seemed at a deadlock. 

And it was then that Lane had, what he after¬ 
ward referred to as the greatest inspiration of 
his whole career. 

He was gazing into vacancy, wondering 
whether to accept defeat in this crisis and go on 
with the rest of his programme or whether to 
try further to get at the truth, when he spied 
something. A ray of sunlight coming in at a 
window suddenly enlightened him as to a great 
secret. 

With renewed enthusiasm, he turned to Lora 
Ward, 

“What do you know about the Fourteenth 
Key?” he almost shouted. 

“Nothing,” she said, wonderingly, “except 
that I once or twice heard my mother mention 
it. She merely made casual reference to it, and 
I’ve no idea what it may be.” 

“And you,” Lane turned to Joyce, “what do 
you know about it?” 


326 


The Fourteenth Key 


“I know a lot about it,” Gilray said. “It is 
a key that unlocks some of my grandfather’s 
private papers, but I don’t know where it is or 
what box or door it unlocks.” 

“You don’t!” Lane said, speaking now in a 
low, intense voice, “well, I do!” 

Everybody stared, and slowly Lane rose from 
his chair and walked across the room. He 
paused in front of the old mantel and looked 
at the wall above it. 

The two lawyers especially watched him 
narrowly. For both these men had an idea that 
certain papers were secreted there, but had no 
notion how to reach them. 

Stepping on a chair, Lane began to count with 
his fingers on the design of a Grecian border 
that ran all round the over-mantel panel. 

“Don’t you know,” he said as his finger paused 
at number fourteen, “that this design is called 
the Greek Key pattern?” 

“Of course it is!” cried Burr, and then, 
pressing on the fourteenth Greek key from the 
mantel, Lane caused a small door to swing open. 
The door was the width of the Grecian pattern 
and of a height the full measure of the border 
on that side. A very long narrow door, whose 
presence was indiscernible because it was just 
exactly covered by the border design and so 
showed no joint or crack. 


The Truth at Last 


327 

And in this narrow cupboard lay a mass of 
papers. 

Joyce Gilray sprang to his feet, screaming, 
“Don’t you dare touch those,—they are mine! 
Everything in this house is mine—don’t dare—” 

“Be quiet,” Lane admonished him. “If these 
are rightfully yours no harm will be done them,— 
if not, you cannot claim them.” 

The detective drew out a great handful of 
documents, and found among them the whole 
lot of papers that Gilray had brought in the old 
leather bag. Also there were the two letters 
that Mark Winslow had received, signed Joyce 
Gilray, and other papers as well. 

“Sign your name,” Lane commanded, as he 
thrust paper and pencil before the maddened 
Gilray. 

“I—I can’t,” the man replied. “Ever since 
I broke my finger in the wreck, I’ve not been 
able to sign my regular autograph.” 

“Miss Ward,” Lane ignored Gilray, “please 
sign your name—in printed letters. That is,” he 
added, smiling, “print the name of Joyce Gil¬ 
ray.” 

Lora Ward did so, and in a moment, Lane was 
comparing it with the printed signature on the 
letter he held. They were identical, and as the 
man who called himself by that name made 
no attempt to write anything, the rest of those 


328 


The Fourteenth Key 


present began to see that he had slight claim 
to the name he used. 

Lane had tossed the whole lot of letters and 
papers to the two lawyers and they were going 
over them methodically, now and then nodding 
their heads and making remarks of surprise and 
satisfaction. 

“Miss Ward, is without doubt the grand¬ 
daughter of Mark Winslow, ” Brett said, at last. 
“I admit I’m surprised, but there is no possible 
question of the fact.” 

“I’m not surprised,” Barry said, “and I may 
as well tell you that all along Mr. Winslow was 
by no means sure that the young man there was 
his grandson. He had an old letter from his 
daughter, in which though she spoke of her child 
merely as baby Joyce, there are other allusions 
which seem to point to a girl baby. And had 
Miss Joyce Gilray appeared, the old man would 
have welcomed her warmly and lovingly. But 
the man came, and Mr. Winslow had not only 
no wish but no reason to doubt his identity. 
Had Miss Ward appeared during the life of her 
grandfather he would have known the truth 
himself. But having no possible cause of sus¬ 
picion he didn’t in any way doubt the claims of 
the man who pretended to be his grandson.” 

“I give up,” and Tom Pinney threw out his 
hands before him. “I did pretend to be the 


The Truth at Last 


329 


grandson of Mr. Winslow, I am an impostor, 
but I want it understood that I believed Miss 
Ward was dead. They told me so positively 
while I was at the hospital. I had clutched the 
bag of papers when the crash came, partly with 
an idea of saving it for Miss Ward,—for I knew 
how she cherished it,—and partly in an un¬ 
conscious grip which made the bag stay in my 
hand as I was picked up and carried to the 
hospital. Then when the nurse assumed it was 
mine, I conceived the plan of impersonating the 
missing grandchild. Miss Ward had told me 
the whole story, I knew all the details, and 
learned corroboration from the papers in the 
bag. I had everything but the amethyst cross, 
and I bought an old one in New York and had 
it engraved on my way here. I confess it all, 
in hopes of being judged leniently, for as I say, 
I had every reason to believe Miss Ward was 
killed in the accident, and I felt I was injuring 
no one, and perhaps bringing cheer and com¬ 
fort to a lonely old man-” 

“ Never mind about that sort of talk, Mr. 
Pinney,” Lane said, looking disgusted at the 
tone and expression of the hypocrite. 

“But don’t be too hard on him,” said Lora 
Ward, amazed at the turn things had taken and 
truly sorry for Pinney. “He thought I was 
dead-” 



330 


The Fourteenth Key 


“Well, he didn’t think so, after you arrived 
here on the scene—” Barry began, and Pinney 
tried to defend himself. 

“By that time,” he argued, “I was so firmly 
established in this position-” 

“That you couldn’t bring yourself to vacate! ” 
Lane said. “Well, never mind all that, Mr. 
Pinney,—if that is your real name! Here’s 
what we’re going to talk about now. What do 
you know of Maisie Merton?” 

If ever a short speech produced a sensation, 
that one did. Pinney turned dead white, his 
jaw fell and his eyes seemed to bulge from their 
sockets. 

“N—nothing!” he cried, “nothing at all-” 

“Except that you killed her!” Lane said, and 
his low tones seemed to reverberate through the 
silence. “Miss Ward, there are going to be 
some very unpleasant revelations,—perhaps you 
and Mrs. Winslow would better leave the 
room-” 

“No,” said Lora, who was resting in Burr’s 
protecting arm, “No, I’d rather know.” 

Molly, too, signified her firm intention of 
staying and Lane went on; “I have seen the 
Moving Picture called ‘Primitive Passions’ and 
I recognized yourself and the unfortunate woman 
who was killed on the porch of this house, some 
time ago. That woman played in that film with 


The Truth at Last 


33i 


you. In the picture you stabbed her to death,— 
stabbed her in the throat with a wicked, fiend¬ 
ish knife, that you often flourished in the films 
of Western stories you played in. In the pic¬ 
ture the killing was only pretence, but—when 
she wrote to you, and threatened to interfere 
with your career with Mr. Winslow, you made 
an appointment for her to come here late at 
night, and you went downstairs, met her on 
the porch and killed her with that knife!” 

The accused man tried to speak, he stammered 
denials but the words died in his throat as Lane 
went remorselessly on. 

“And as the crowning act of your damnable 
life, you killed the man who had befriended 
you, who had taken you into his heart and home, 
had loved you and treated you as his own—* 
you used the same knife—with diabolical clever¬ 
ness, with fiendish cunning, you personated the 
old professor, and came here and killed the man 
who thought himself your grandfather.” 

“ Oh, no, no! ” Lora moaned, 11 not that! ’’ 

“Yes, just that!” Lane averred. “The old 
professor was Tom Pinney disguised, not much, 
but enough for his purpose. He took that room 
at Mrs. Plum’s, he enacted the old professor, 
and then, he came here that day, rang the bell, 
was let in by Jenks and after his dreadful deed, 
he calmly went upstairs to his own room, 


33 2 


The Fourteenth Key 


resumed the character of Joyce Gilray, and 
came down at the butler’s call, to weep over the 
dead body of his own victim!” 

“Wait, Mr. Lane, wait!” Pinney’s voice rang 
out, “don’t be too smart! Remember, please, 
that with his dying breath, Mark Winslow said 
1 Not Joyce! Tell Burr not Joyce!’” 

“Yes,” Lane glared at the speaker, “and 
what did the dying man mean by those words? 
Not that Joyce didn’t kill him,—as we all took 
the meaning, but, that you were not Joyce! 
And Burr was to be told that you were not Joyce, 
—not the true Joyce. The dying man said, 'not 
my grandson, Joyce!’ and it is plain now, that 
he meant he had discovered your fraud—and, 
this you know to be the truth, Tom Pinney!” 

The man addressed, who sat, his head bowed 
on his hands, did not look up or uncover his face. 

Lane gave a spring at him. 

“As I feared!” he cried, “he has poisoned 
himself,—he’s already dead—or dying. Take 
the women out of the room!” 

It was over in a moment. Pinney had had a 
capsule of deadly poison in his pocket, had taken 
it unseen, and had died almost instantly. 

The lawyers turned him over to the police, 
whom Lane had arranged to have stationed out¬ 
side, though he had expected an arrest, not this 
fatality. 


The Truth at Last 


333 


'‘Tell us how you found out all about it,” 
Brett cried, and Lane said, ‘‘It all came from 
one tiny clue. That of the turned down leaves.” 

“In his books?” Barry asked. 

“Yes. Gilray,—as he was known—had a 
habit of turning up leaves at the bottom of the 
page, I noticed in his room here, and when I 
saw the same trick in the ‘professor's' books, 
I began to suspect the truth. Then I learned 
that the ‘professor' though often uncultured in 
his ways, yet also frequently showed fastidious 
and conventional manners. I sort of surmised 
an actor and a villain both, and from that things 
unfolded rapidly. Then Jenks put me on the 
track of Maisie Merton. She was Pinney's wife, 
—they had often acted together. He thought 
he had eluded her but when she turned up and 
threatened his standing here in Willowvale he 
killed her to get rid of her. I learned all these 
things piecemeal and put them together, but 
they’re all true. The man was not a villain until 
he took up this path of deceit. Then, circum¬ 
stances arose one after the other, and he gave 
way to the worst temptations. He had had 
two letters from Miss Ward,—addressed of 
course to Mark Winslow. Her advent threat¬ 
ened his position anew, and he planned to kill 
Mr. Winslow and cash in his inheritance and 
get away. But Miss Ward arrived before his 


334 


The Fourteenth Key 


departure, and then he had to face the music. 
He put up a big fight but the odds were against 
him.” I 

“The odds being Lorimer Lane,” Barry de-| 
dared and Brett heartily agreed. 

“I ought to have seen through it all sooner,” 
the detective said, with a ruminative face. 
“But I found it hard to imagine such a despicable 
criminal and such a fearful double crime! How- 
ever, Miss Ward will have no trouble in proving 
her inheritance now, though I doubt if she cares 
to assume the name of Joyce Gilray, after that 
scoundrel has defamed it.” 

“It won’t be necessary,” Lora said, passing 
the door as these words were spoken, “I shall! 
retain the name of Lora Ward, which my 
mother gave me-” 

“Until,” Burr said, coming to her side, “until 
you change it for Mrs. Burr Winslow.” 



















0 V- 

V.' O' -j r r/-zt-, , -,_ v 

- ^ K 

o \° ©* 

> 

K * ^ * rO c> l 

C ^_ * ■') N 0 A ^ « ^ g | 1 " »V 

r -> A vV 

A <* «N\ Al "v* 

' ° “ 

A 

V 



" <x> </> 

\|V *> A V </\ 

AA - ^ , 

x * A V) ^ 

# AIL'A ^ 

A <AN\ ». ^ O 

<•. <a ‘ ^ y 

y <>* \ 

« o 0 


^ A, A \\ 
% C A V 

A. O Vf- V, ^ 

^ ^ ^ »» 

ZA> z v z 


* — - NV V^O- 

■X <A cU ** * 

\*\s**, *>- a *° A> ^ ’ 

✓ AwfeJA > , 0 V * Y * 0 A "o 

^ A * A, r 

*>A Ca J\\\ $&///) o 


A .A «■ ^ 

, s ob <* 

C>°\v^l!% % 



* ^ c 

A # ^ * 
y o * x * A 'o A 

.A c ° nc *,a 

-X> -S AAvYr^ ^ 

■y V 
a' 



x 00 ^. 



p . A ^ 

,C 

''p ’ v ' ; '~ 0 „0 CP * t~ ^ A V 

" vfc° A A % v A '■ 

“ ^ A *AM'k r ° A .** 

v x> - z \ v 

A. 

-^- O 


A ® A 
A * a^ v 


'/ 

xV </> 

> a 



A 


c, A* 



4 S 























Ct- ' ^ ^ * T> 








o * 

<y v '*• 

o o x 

4 ^ 7 * * 

>* jY* V^. y, ~^'sl \X >y > > IT ’*'*" <S^SY//f M^MK > “'* 

,s a * ° ’/°\ < • °/v* • 1 '* vv*-*v* 

“- ;***'• * 

z 



■0 N 



A* 


aT ^ -* *§P]F-/ « ^ o v/ g SXV w .> 

* ^ o a ‘* ^ %S 288 §r * o> * 

y 0 * X * A <5 * / y c S v ,G X <* * ■* 0 „ k * * A 

lV o N C „ ^ ' * * S V I 8 h z,. ° * X a\ o 

-V> c 4 „ CL ,.0 t ^ jv c 

YTV ■> _s>vs^ Z <_Z (» v ' -vAo 1 'P ' k> * 

«/• " S j&fi!//^, -p *>V \\ H, 

* 0 \ ** ^ 4 - V s o 

■a 


,v 




* 

>* 

•/'..-,%'••■■■■ v' .. 

* * .fAWA, r .G * 

z ’* ^ 



>1 *?©* >- 

^ *K 



* aw ffisS® » ^ 13 

* ^ ^ v 

' f ,,%'•* HO’.* . .*. 

vL 'LL*, ^ . //'••'. ffp 

* ^ A aWa * V' r 

> 1 ^ v . \ z. 

° ,$%. "fw: ,^ v <v W ; ,<: 



°' ° 


0 C* ^ A. 

-s ,u J ©, ^ 

A 0 > ^ * 0 z ^ 

^ MA o 


15 - 

.•^<.-.K' ; ^y.*-'% 

. -, Jgspg' ° %. ® W^W» 4 ^ V % '. 

V' • ■*'' 1 .A ■ *« ^' 10 • ‘ V c»- ‘, V' * *'''J 

^ lO 4 Z O \J • 

■/ ** 



\ <$> 




- “o 0 0 \0 

/ 

/Aw.v 09 % % „.. 

v v <,. . * s »° >°‘ ^ •. ,.%. 

' '* % / ^./ ; 
o,//*™. ^ v< ^. : .®Sll^’" ,s % » 






































































































